GIFT   OF 
Miss   i^lla  Castelhun 


THE    COMPLETE 

POETICAL  WORKS   OF 

OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES 

Cambric  Glutton 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  AND    COMPANY 
Che  CxifcersiDe  press,  Cambridge 


Copyright,  1850,  1858,  1859,  1861,  1862,  1865,  1874,  1875,  1877,  1878,  1880,  1881,  1882,  1886,  1887, 
1888,  1889,  1890,  1891,  and  1895. 

BY  OLIVEB  WENDELL  HOLMES ;   TICKNOR,  REED  &  FIELDS ;   JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. ; 
AND  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


A 


PUBLISHERS'    NOTE 


Tins  Cambridge  Edition  of  The  Complete  Poetic  Works  of  Olivet'  Wendell 
Holmes  is  the  fourth  in  a  series  which  includes  the  poems  and  dramas  of  Longfel 
low,  Whittler,  and  Browning.  It  follows  in  its  scheme  the  plan  of  the  previous 
volumes.  The  editor  was  at  some  disadvantage  in  not  being  able  to  avail  himself 
of  the  Life  of  Dr.  Holmes  which  is  now  in  preparation,  but  the  frequent  autobio 
graphical  passages  in  the  writings  of  the  author  enabled  him  to  illustrate  a  career- 
devoid,  even  more  than  that  of  most  poets,  of  adventure  or  dramatic  incident. 
The  head-notes,  in  like  manner,  could  frequently  be  supplied  from  comment  occur 
ring  in  the  author's  prose  writings  and  in  prefaces  to  separate  publications  of  poems, 
but  very  many  of  the  poems  are  so  self-explanatory  that  the  reader  requires  no 
introduction. 

The  policy  has  been  pursued,  as  in  the  former  cases,  of  taking  the  latest  collec 
tive  edition  issued  in  the  poet's  lifetime  as  the  pattern  to  be  followed  both  in  text 
and  in  arrangement,  but  the  opportunity  has  been  used  to  include  a  few  poems 
which  were  written  after  the  latest  edition  appeared  or  had  by  some  accident  failed 
to  receive  the  author's  attention  when  he  was  making  up  his  final  collection  ;  no 
attempt,  however,  has  been  made,  in  gathering  the  early  poems,  to  go  outside  of 
the  volumes  in  which  they  were  originally  included.  It  is  assumed  that  Dr. 
Holmes  when  making  up  these  volumes  intentionally  disregarded  some  of  the 
poems  scattered  through  periodicals.  This  is  confirmed  by  the  attitude  which  he 
took  when  his  attention  was  called  to  the  omission  upon  the  occasion  of  the  issue 
of  the  Riverside  Edition.  He  refused  to  give  them  a  refuge  even  in  an  appendix. 
The  arrangement  here  is  the  same  as  in  the  Riverside  Edition,  with  some  slight 
modification,  chiefly  caused  by  the  introduction  of  new  material.  In  accordance 
with  the  plan  of  this  series  and  with  Dr.  Holmes's  original  intention  when  the 
Riverside  Edition  was  prepared,  the  Juvenilia  are  placed  in  an  appendix  in 
smaller  type.  Throughout  the  volume,  whether  in  head-notes  or  in  those  placed 
in  the  appendix,  the  editor's  work  is  distinguished  by  the  use  of  brackets. 

BOSTON,  4  PAKK  STKEET,  October  21,  1805. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  . 

TO  MY  HEADERS 

EARLIER   POEMS  (1830-18315). 

OLD  IRONSIDES  .... 

THE  LAST  LEAF 

THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD 

To  AN  INSECT 

THE  DILEMMA 

MY  AUNT 

REFLECTIONS  OF  A  PROUD  PEDES 
TRIAN  

DAILY  TRIALS,  BY  A  SENSITIVE 
MAN 

EVENING,  BY  A  TAILOR    . 

THE  DORCHESTER  GIANT     . 

To  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  ''A  LADY  M 

THE  COMET     

THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS 

THE  TREADMILL  SONG 

THE  SEPTEMBER  GALE     . 

THE  HEIGHT  OF  THE  RIDICULOUS     . 

THE  LAST  READER    .... 

POETRY:  A  METRICAL  ESSAY     . 
POEMS  PUBLISHED  BETWEEN  1837 
AND   1S4S. 

THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION     . 

THE  STEAMBOAT 

LEXINGTON 

ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  CENTENNIAL  CEL 
EBRATION  OF  HARVARD  COLLEGE, 
is3i> 

THE  ISLAND  HUNTING-SONG 

DEPARTED  DAYS        .... 

THE  ONLY  DAUGHTER 

SONG  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  DlNNER 
GIVEN  TO  CHARLES  DICKENS.  BY 
THE  YOUNG  MEN  OF  BOSTON,  FEB 
RUARY  1,  1842  .... 

LINES   RECITED     AT   THE     BERKSHIRE 

JUBILEE,  PITTSFIELD,  MASS.,  AUG 
UST  23,  1844  ...... 

NUX  POSTCCENATICA 
VERSES  FOR  AFTER -DINNER 


PAGE 

xi 


A  MODEST  REQUEST,  COMPLIED  WITH 
AFTER  THE  DlNNER  AT  PRESIDENT 
EVERETT'S  INAUGURATION  .  37 

THE  PARTING  WORD    .        .        .        .40 
A  SONG  OF  OTHER  DAYS         .        .        41 
SONG   FOR  A  TEMPERANCE  DINNER 
TO   WHICH   LADIES   WERE  INVITED 
(NEW  YORK  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY 
ASSOCIATION,  NOVEMBER,  1842)      .    42 

A  SENTIMENT 42 

A  RHYMED  LESSON  (URANIA)     .        .    43 
AN  AFTER-DINNER  POEM    (TERPSI 
CHORE)       54 

MEDICAL  POEMS. 

THE  MORNING  VISIT    ....    58 
THE  Two  ARMIES     ....        59 
THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG     .        •        •    00 
EXTRACTS  FROM  A  MEDICAL  POEM         OL 
A  POEM  FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE 
AMERICAN  MEDICAL    ASSOCIATION 
AT  NEW  YORK,  MAY  5,  18,");')        .        02 

A  SENTIMENT 03 

RIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.  I).        .        .        03 
POEM  READ  AT  THE  DlNNER  GIVEN 
TO  THE  AUTHOR  BY  THE  MEDICAL 
PROFESSION  OF  THE  CITY  OF  NEW 
YORK,  APRIL  12,  1883       .        .        .    08 

SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS  (1849-1801). 

PROLOGUE 72 

AGNES       .......  72 

THE  PLOUGHMAN  79 

SPRING 80 

THE  STUDY 82 

THE  BELLS 83 

NON-RESISTANCE        ....  83 
THE  MORAL  BULLY      •        •        •        .84 

THE  MIND'S  DIET      ....  85 

OUR  LIMITATIONS          ....  85 

THE  OLD  PLAYER      ....  85 
A  POEM  :  DEDICATION  OF  THE  PITTS- 
FIELD    CEMETERY,   SEPTEMBER  9, 

1850 87 

To  GOVERNOR  SWAIN       ...  89 
To  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND      .        •        -90 


VI 


CONTENTS 


AFTER     A    LECTURE    ON     WORDS 
WORTH      90 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  MOORE  .  .  91 
AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  KEATS  .  92 
AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  SHELLEY  .  92 
AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  COURSE  OF 

LECTURES 93 

THE  HUDSON          .        .    •   .       .        .94 
THE  NEW  EDEN'        .       .    •  .       .       94 
SEMI-CENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  NEW  ENGLAND  SOCIETY,  NEW 
YORK,  DECEMBER  22,  1855       .        .96 
FAREWELL  TO  J.  R.  LOWELL          .       97 
FOR   THE   MEETING  OF  THE   BURNS 

CLUB,  185(5 97 

ODE  FOR  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY  98 
BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER  .  98 
THE  VOICELESS  .  .  .  .  .99 
THE  Two  STREAMS  .  .  .  .  99 
THE  PROMISE  .  .  .  .  .100 

Avis 100 

THE  LIVING  TEMPLE  ....  101 
AT  A  BIRTHDAY  FESTIVAL  :  TO  J.  R. 

LOWELL 102 

A    BIRTHDAY    TRIBUTE    TO    J.    F. 

CLARKE 102 

THE  GRAY  CHIEF      ....      102 
THE  LAST  LOOK  :  W.  W.  SWAIN      .  103 
IN    MEMORY    OF    CHARLES    WENT- 
WORTH  UPHAM,  JR.       ...      103 

MARTHA 104 

MEETING  OF  THE  ALUMNI   OF  HAR 
VARD  COLLEGE,  1857     .  104 
THE  PARTING  SONG      ....  106 
FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  NATIONAL 

SANITARY  ASSOCIATION,  I860        .    10G 
FOR   THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL  CEL 
EBRATION,  1859 107 

AT  A  MEETING  OF  FRIENDS  .  .  108 
BOSTON  COMMON  ;  THREE  PICTURES  109 
THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  SEA  .  .  109 
INTERNATIONAL  ODE  .  .  .  .110 
VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ....  no 
BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT  FOR 
SISTER  CAROLINE  .  .  .  .111 

POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29  (1851- 
1889). 

BILL  AND  JOE 113 

A  SONG  OF  "TWENTY-NINE"  .  .114 
QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS  .  .  115 
AN  IMPROMPTU  .  .  .  .  .115 
THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS  .  .  .  115 
REMEMBER  —  FORGET  ....  116 
OUR  INDIAN  SUMMER  ;  .  .117 

MARE  RUBRUM 117 

THE  BOYS 118 


LINES 119 

A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH    .      120 

J.  D.  R 120 

VOYAGE  OF  THE  GOOD  SHIP  UNION  120 
"  CHOOSE  YOU  THIS  DAY  WHOM  YE 

WILL  SERVE  " 121 

F.  W.  C 122 

THE  LAST  CHARGE  .  .  .  .123 
OUR  OLDEST  FRIEND  .  .  .124 
SHERMAN  's  IN  SAVANNAH  .  .  124 

MY  ANNUAL 125 

ALL  HERE       .        .       .       .        .        .120 

ONCE  MORE        .       .       .       .       .127 

THE  OLD  CRUISER        .       .       .       .128 

HYMN  FOR  THE  CLASS-MEETING    .      129 

EVEN-SONG 130 

THE  SMILING  LISTENER  .  .  .  131 
OUR  SWEET  SINGER  :  J.  A.  .  .  133 
H.  C.  M.,  H.  S.,  J.  K.  W.  .  .  133 
WHAT  I  HAVE  COME  FOR  •  .  .134 

OUR  BANKER 135 

FOR  CLASS  MEETING     ....  136 

"Ao  AMICOS" 137 

HOW  NOT  TO  SETTLE  IT  ...  138 
THE  LAST  SURVIVOR  .  .  .140 
THE  ARCHBISHOP  AND  GIL  BLAS  .  141 

THE  SHADOWS 142 

BENJAMIN  PEIRCE  .  .  .  .  143 
IN  THE  TWILIGHT  .  .  .  .144 
A  LOVING-CUP  SONG  ....  145 
THE  GIRDLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  .  145 
THE  LYRE  OF  ANACREON  .  .  .146 
THE  OLD  TUNE  ....  146 
THE  BROKEN  CIRCLE  .  .  .  .147 
THE  ANGEL-THIEF  ....  147 
AFTER  THE  CURFEW  ....  148 

POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 
THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  (1857- 
1858). 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS  .  .  JLiP 
SUN  AND  SHADOW  .  .  .  .150 

MUSA 150 

A  PARTING  HEALTH  :  TO  J.  L.  MOTLEY  151 
WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK  .  .  .152 
SPRING  HAS  COME  ....  152 

PROLOGUE 153 

LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS  .  .  .154 
ALBUM  VERSES  .  •  •  .155 
A  GOOD  TIME  GOING  !  ...  155 
THE  LAST  BLOSSOM  .  .  .  156 

CONTENTMENT 157 

./ESTIVATION 158 

THE  DEACON'S    MASTERPIECE  ;    on, 
THE     WONDERFUL      "ONE-Hoss 

SHAY" 158 

PRELUDE 160 


CONTENTS 


vn 


PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY  ;  OR,  THE 
PRESIDENT'S  OLD  ARM-CHAIR  .  100 

ODE  FOR  A  SOCIAL  MEETING,  WITH 
SLIGHT  ALTERATIONS  BY  A  TEE 
TOTALER  1(12 

POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR  AT 
THE  ERE  AKFAST  -  TABLE  (1858- 
1859). 

UNDER  THE  VIOLETS  ....  103 
HYMN  OP  TRUST  ....  103 
A  SUN-DAY  HYMN  ....  103 
THE  CROOKED  FOOTPATH  .  .  104 

IRIS,  HER  BOOK 104 

ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN  .  .  .  165 
ST.  ANTHONY  THE  REFORMER  .  .  100 
THE  OPENING  OF  THE  PIANO  •  106 

MIDSUMMER 107 

I)E  SAUTY 107 

POEMS    FROM  THE    POET  AT  THE 
BREAKFAST-TABLE  (1871-1872). 
HOMESICK  IN  HEAVEN         .        .        .  lUil 

FANTASIA 

AUNT  TABITHA       .        •        •        • 
WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS    . 
EPILOGUE  TO  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 
SERIES 18."> 

SONGS    OF     MANY   SEASONS  (1802- 

1874). 

OPENING  THE  WINDOW  .  .  .  1S5 
PROGRAMME 185 

IN  THE  QUIET  DAYS. 
AN  OLD-YEAR  SONG          •        •        •      180 
DOROTHY  Q. :  A  FAMILY  PORTRAIT    .  180 
THE  ORGAN-BLOWER         .        .        .      187 

AFTER  THE  FIRE 188 

AT  THE  PANTOMIME          .        .        .      189 
A   BALLAD    OF    THE    BOSTON    TEA- 
PARTY  100 

NEARING  THE  SNOW-LINE       .        .      101 

IN  WAR  TIME. 

To  CANAAN  :  A  PURITAN  WAR- 
SONG  101 

"  THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD,  I  OFFER 
THEE  THREE  THINGS  "  .  .  102 

NEVER  OR  Now 102 

HYMN  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  GREAT  CEN 
TRAL  FAIR  IN  PHILADELPHIA,  1804  10.'? 

ONE  COUNTRY 103 

GOD  SAVE  THE  FLAG  !  104 

HYMN    AFTER    THE    EMANCIPATION 

PROCLAMATION 104 

HYMN  FOR  THE  FAIR  AT  CHICAGO, 
1805 104 


UNDER  THE  WASHINGTON  ELM,  CAM 
BRIDGE          105 

FREEDOM, OUR  QUEEN      .        .        .      105 

ARMY  HYMN 100 

PARTING  HYMN  ....  100 
THE  FLOWER  OF  LIBERTY  .  .  100 
THE  SWEET  LITTLE  MAN  .  .  107 
LTNION  AND  LIBERTY  .  .  .  .108 
SONGS  OF  WELCOME  AND  FAREWELL. 
AMERICA  TO  RUSSIA  .  .  .  108 
WELCOME  TO  THE  GRAND  DUKE 

ALEXIS 100 

AT    THE  BANQUET    TO  THE  GRAND 

DUKE  ALEXIS 100 

AT  THE   BANQUET   TO  THE  CHINESE 

EMBASSY 200 

AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  JAPANESE 

E.MBASSY 201 

BRYANT'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  .  202 
A  FAREWELL  TO  AGASSIZ  .  .  203 
AT  A  DINNER  TO  ADMIRAL  FAR- 

RAGUT 204 

AT  A  DINNER  TO  GENERAL  GRANT  205 
To  II.  W.  LONGFELLOW  .  .  .  200 
To  CHRISTIAN  GOTTFRIED  EHREN- 

BERG 200 

A  TOAST  TO  WILKIE  COLLINS         .      207 
MEMORIAL  VERSES. 
FOR  THE    SERVICES  IN  MEMORY   OF 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,  BOSTON,  JUNE 

1,  1805 208 

FOR  THE  COMMEMORATION  SERVICES, 

CAMBRIDGE,    JULY  21,  1805  .        .      208 
EDWARD    EVERETT  :    JANUARY     30, 

1805 210 

SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENNIAL  CELE 
BRATION,  APRIL  23,  1804       .        .211 
IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  AND    ROBERT 

WARE,  MAY  25,  1804         .        .        .  212 
HUMBOLDT'S     BIRTHDAY  :     CENTEN 
NIAL  CELEBRATION,  SEPTEMBER  14, 

1X00 213 

POEM  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE 
HALLECK  MONUMENT,  JULY  8, 

1800 214 

HYMN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  AT  THE 
LAYING  OF  THE  CORNER-STONE  OF 
HARVARD  MEMORIAL  HALL,  CAM 
BRIDGE,  OCTOBER  0,  1870  .  .  214 
HYMN  FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  ME 
MORIAL  HALL  AT  CAMBRIDGE,  JUNE 

2:;,  1874 215 

HYMN  AT  THE  FUNERAL  SERVICES 
OF  CHARLES  SUMNER,  APRIL  20, 
1874 215 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


RHYMES  OF  AN  HOUR. 
AN  IMPROMPTU   AT  THE   WALCKER 
DINNER  UPON  THE  COMPLETION  OF 
THE  GREAT   ORGAN    FOR   BOSTON 
Music  HALL  IN  18G3.       .       .        .  215 
ADDRESS  FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  THE 
FIFTH    AVENUE   THEATRE,    NEW 
YORK,  DECEMBER  3,  1873     .        .      21G 

A  SEA  DIALOGUE 218 

CHANSON  WITHOUT  Music        .       .      219 
FOR  THE   CENTENNIAL   DINNER    OF 
THE  PROPRIETORS  OF  BOSTON  PIER, 
OR  THE  LONG  WHARF,  APRIL  1G, 

1873       .- 220 

A  POEM  SERVED  TO  ORDER     .       .      221 
THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH  .       .       .  222 
No  TIME  LIKE  THE  OLD  TIME       .      222 
A  HYMN  OF  PEACE,    SUNG   AT  THE 
"JUBILEE,"  JUNE  15, 18G9,  TO  THE 
Music   OF  KELLER'S    "AMERICAN 
HYMN  " 223 


BUNKER -  HILL      BATTLE 
OTHER   POEMS  (1874-1877). 


AND 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER- 
HILL  BATTLE J224 

AT  THE    "ATLANTIC"  DINNER,  DE 
CEMBER  15,  1874      ....      227 
"LUCY:  "   FOR  HER  GOLDEN  WED 
DING,  OCTOBER  18,  1875         .        .      228 
HYMN   FOR  THE  INAUGURATION   OF 
THE   STATUE    OF    GOVERNOR   AN 
DREW,  HINGHAM,  OCTOBER  7,  1875  229 
A  MEMORIAL  TRIBUTE  TO  DR.  SAM 
UEL  G.  HOWE  ,        .      229 
JOSEPH  WARREN,  M.  D.      .  230 
OLD  CAMBRIDGE,  JULY  3,  1875       .      230 
WELCOME  TO  THE  NATIONS,  PHILA 
DELPHIA,  JULY  4,  1876       .        .        .232 
A  FAMILIAR  LETTER         .        .        .      232 

UNSATISFIED 234 

How  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON  THE  BET  234 
AN  APPEAL  FOR  "  THE  OLD  SOUTH  "  236 
THE  FIRST  FAN  ....  237 
To  RUTHERFORD  BIRCHARD  HAYES  239 
THE  SHIP  OF  STATE  .  .  .239 
A  FAMILY  RECORD  .  .  .239 


THE    IRON      GATE 
POEMS  (1877-1881). 


AND    OTHER 


THE  IRON  GATE  .  .  ...  243 
VESTIGIA  QUINQUE  RETRORSUM  .  244 

MY  AVIARY 247 

ON  THE  THRESHOLD  .  ^  .  .  .  249 
To  GEORGE  PEABODY  ...  249 
AT  THE  PAPYRUS  CLUB  .  .  .  249 


FOR  WHITTIER'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTH 
DAY    250 

Two  SONNETS  :  HARVARD  .  .  .  251 
THE  COMING  ERA  ....  251 

IN  RESPONSE 252 

FOR  THE  MOORE  CENTENNIAL  CELE 
BRATION    .        .       .        .       .        .      253 

To  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE     .        .  255 
WELCOME  TO  THE  CHICAGO  COMMER 
CIAL  CLUB 255 

AMERICAN     ACADEMY   CENTENNIAL 

CELEBRATION      .....  256 
THE  SCHOOL-BOY       ....      257 
THE  SILENT  MELODY    ....  263 
OUR  HOME  — OUR  COUNTRY    .       .      263 
POEM   AT   THE   CENTENNIAL   ANNI 
VERSARY  DINNER  OF  THE  MASSA 
CHUSETTS  MEDICAL  SOCIETY   .       .  264 

HARVARD 268 

RHYMES  OF  A  LIFE-TIME     .       .       .208 

BEFORE  THE  CURFEW. 

AT  MY  FIRESIDE  ....  269 
AT  THE  SATURDAY  CLUB  .  .  .  269 
OUR  DEAD  SINGER.  H.  W.  L.  .  271 
Two  POEMS  TO  HARRIET  BEECHER 

STOWE      ON     HER      SEVENTIETH 

BIRTHDAY. 

I.  AT  THE  SUMMIT         .        .        .  272 
II.  THE  WORLD'S  HOMAGE        .      272 
A  WELCOME  TO  DR.  BENJAMIN  AP- 

THORP  GOULD 273 

To  FREDERICK  HENRY  HEDGE  ON  HIS 

EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY  .  .  .  274 
To  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  .  .  274 
To  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  ON 

HIS  EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY          .      275 
PRELUDE  TO  A  VOLUME  PRINTED  IN 

RAISED  LETTERS  FOR  THE  BLIND  276 
BOSTON  TO  FLORENCE  .  .  .  276 
AT  THE  UNITARIAN  FESTIVAL,  MARCH 

8,  1882 277 

POEM  FOR  THE  Two  HUNDRED  AND 

FIFTIETH    ANNIVERSARY   OF    THE 

FOUNDING   OF  HARVARD  COLLEGE 
POST-PRANDIAL  :  PHI  BETA  KAPPA, 

1881 

THE  FLANEUR  :  DURING  THE  TRAN 
SIT  OF  VENUS,  1882        .        .        .284 

AVE 286 

KING'S  CHAPEL  :   READ  AT  THE  Two 

HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  .  286 
HYMN  FOR  THE  SAME  OCCASION  .  287 
HYMN  —  THE  WORD  OF  PROMISE  .  288 
HYMN  READ  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF 

THE    OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES 


CONTENTS 


HOSPITAL  AT  HUDSON,  WISCONSIN, 

JUNE  7,  1887 288 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  GAR- 
FIELD     280 

THE  GOLDEN  FLOWER       .        .        .      290 

YOUTH 200 

HAIL,  COLUMBIA  !  200 

POEM  FOR  THE   DEDICATION  OF  THE 
FOUNTAIN  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON, 
PRESENTED  BY  GEORGE  W-  CH1LDS, 
OF  PHILADELPHIA       ....  201 
To  THE  POETS  WHO  ONLY  READ  AND 

LISTEN 202 

FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF   THE   NEW 

CITY  LIBRARY,  BOSTON    .        .        .  203 
To  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL,  AT  THE 
DINNER  GIVEN  IN   HIS    HONOR  AT 
THE  TAVERN  CLUB,  ON  HIS  SEVEN 
TIETH    BIRTHDAY,    FEBRUARY    22, 

1X80 20:; 

BUT  ONE  TALENT          ....  205 
FOR   THE    WINDOW   IN    ST.   MARGA 
RET'S          21 K) 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL:  lSlO-ls;ii  .  20ti 
IN  MEMORY    OF    JOHN    GREENLEAF 
WHITTIEK:    DECEMBER  17,  1807  — 
SEPTEMBER  7,  1802        .        .        .      207 
To  THE  TEACHERS  OF  AMERICA       .  208 
HYMN  WRITTEN  FOR  THE   TWENTY- 
FIFTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  RE 
ORGANIZATION    OF     THI:     BOSTON 
YOUNG    MEN'S    CHRISTIAN  UNION, 

MAY  ;il,  180:; L'08 

FRANCIS  PARKMAN:   SEPTEMBER  Hi, 
1823  —  NOVEMBER  8,  1893         .        .  208 

POEMS  FROM  OVER  THE  TEACUPS. 
To  THE   ELEVEN  LADIES   WHO  PRE 
SENTED  ME   WITH  A  SILVER  LOV 
ING   CUP 300 

THE  PEAU  DE    CHAGRIN    OF   STATE 

STREET ;5<>o 

CACOETHES  SCRIBENDI  .  .  .  300 
THE  ROSE  AND  THE  FERN  .  .  3oi 
I  LIKE  YOU  AND  I  LOVE  YOU  .  301 
LA  MAISON  D'OR  (BAR  HARBOR)  .  .">0l 
Too  YOUNG  FOR  LOVE  .  .  .  30 1 
THE  BROOMSTICK  TRAIN;  OR,  THE 
RETURN  OF  THE  WITCHES  .  .  301 

TARTARUS ~304 

AT  THE  TURN  OF  THE  ROAD     .        .  304 
IN  VITA  MINERVA        ....      305 

READINGS  OVER  THE  TEACUPS. 

To  MY  OLD  READERS  ....  306 


THE  BANKER'S  SECRET  .  .  .  307 
THE  EXILE'S  SECRET  ....  311 
THE  LOVER'S  SECRET  .  .  .  313 
THE  STATESMAN'S  SECRET  .  .  315 
THE  MOTHER'S  SECRET  .  .  .  317 
THE  SECRET  OF  THE  STARS  .  .  319 
APPENDIX. 

I.  VERSES    FROM    THE    OLDEST  PORT 

FOLIO. 
FIRST  VERSES  :    TRANSLATION  FROM 

THE  ^ENEID 

THE  MEETING  OF  THE  DRYADS 
THE  MYSTERIOUS  VISITOR 

THE  TOADSTOOL 323 

THE  SPECTRE  PIG  ....  3,23 
To  A  CAGED  LION  ....  324 
THE  STAR  AND  THE  WATER-LILY  .  325 
ILLUSTRATION  OF  A  PICTURE  :  ''A 

SPANISH  GIRL  IN  REVERIE"  .        .  325 
A  ROMAN  AQUEDUCT        .        .        .      32<; 
FROM  A  BACHELOR'S  PRIVATE  JOUR 
NAL        32C, 

LA  GRISETTE 32<> 

OUR  YANKEE  GIRLS  .        .        .  ."27 

I/INCONNUE 3,27 

STANZAS .",27 

LINES  BY  A  CLERK    ....      327 
THE  PHILOSOPHER  TO  HIS  LOVE        .  328 
THE  POET'S  LOT        ....      3,28 
To  A  BLANK  SHEET  OF  PAPER.        .  328 
To  THE  PORTRAIT   OF  "  A   GENTLE 
MAN  "    IN    THE    ATHEN.KUM   GAL 
LERY          .",20 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN  .  329 
A  NOONTIDE  LYRIC  ....  3.3,0 

THE  HOT  SEASON 330 

A  PORTRAIT 331 

AN    EVENING    THOUGHT.    WRITTEN 

AT  SEA 331 

••THE  WASP"  AND  "TiiF,  HORNET"  3.3,1 
"  Qui  VIVE  ?  "  .  33,1 

A  SOUVENIR 3,32 

THE  DYING  SENECA      ....  332 
THE    LAST    PROPHECY    OF    CASSAN 
DRA    332 

To  MY  COMPANIONS      ....  333 

II.  ASTR.EA  :    THE  BALANCE  OF  ILLU 
SIONS 333 

III.  NOTES  AND  ADDENDA        .        .        .  337 

IV.  A    CHRONOLOGICAL    LIST    OF    DR. 

HOLMES'S  POEMS    ....      341 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES       .        .        -  345 
INDEX  OF  TITLES        ....      349 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

DR.  HOLMES  had  much  to  say  in  his  writings  of  the  problems  of  heredity,  and  was 
apparently  as  ready  to  recognize  the  caprices  as  the  regular  action  of  inherited  tenden 
cies.  He  may  have  speculated  over  his  own  descent  when  he  wrote,  in  The  Poet  at  the 
Breakfast-Table,  "The  various  inherited  instincts  ripen  in  succession.  You  may  he  nine 
tenths  paternal  at  one  period  of  your  life,  and  nine  tenths  maternal  at  another.  All  at 
once  the  traits  of  some  immediate  ancestor  may  come  to  maturity  unexpectedly  on  one 
of  the  branches  of  your  character,  just  as  your  features  at  different  periods  of  your  life 
betray  different  resemblances  to  your  nearer  or  more  remote  relatives."  One  would 
fain  believe  that  the  thin  poetic  blood  of  his  early  ancestor  Anne  Bradstreet  had  been 
enriched  by  its  secret  passage  through  the  veins  of  several  generations  before  it  issued 
in  the  warm  pulsations  of  this  poet  of  our  day;  but  as  for  those  generous,  even  passionate 
instincts  of  patriotism,  and  that  strong  impulse  toward  lawful  freedom  which  character 
ized  the  wit  and  philosopher,  one  may  readily  take  into  account  the  whole  strain  of  Dr. 
llolmes's  ancestry  on  both  sides. 

With  the  exception  of  a  Dutch  strain  a  few  generations  before,  these  ancestors  were  of 
New  England  origin,  going  back  to  the  early  colonial  days.  John  Holmes,  of  Puritan 
birth,  settled  in  Woodstock,  Connecticut,  in  1G8G.  His  grandson,  David  Holmes,  served 
as  captain  of  British  troops  in  the  French  and  Indian  war  and  later  as  a  surgeon  in  the 
Revolutionary  army.  The  son  of  this  David  was  the  Reverend  Abiel  Holmes,  who  was 
graduated  at  Yale  College  in  1782,  and  after  a  six  years'  pastorate  in  Georgia  came  to 
Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  where  he  was  pastor  over  the  first  parish  for  forty  years,  and 
during  his  pastorate  beside  other  writings  and  lectures  compiled  The  Annals  of  America, 
a  trustworthy  and  creditable  historical  survey.  His  second  wife  was  a  daughter  of 
Oliver  Wendell,  and  her  ancestry  besides  its  Dutch  strain  was  connected  with  the  Pliil- 
lipses,  Quincys,  and  other  well-known  New  England  families. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  the  third  child  and  eldest  son  of  Abiel  and  Mary  Wendell 
Holmes,  was  born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  August  29,  1800.  "  The  year  1809,''  he 
says,  in  Our  Hundred  Days  in  Europe,  "  which  introduced  me  to  atmospheric  existence,  was 
the  birth-year  of  Gladstone,  Tennyson,  Lord  Houghton,  and  Darwin."  But  the  circum 
stances  of  his  birth  were  as  distinct  from  those  that  attended  the  appearance  of  his  illustri 
ous  contemporaries  as  New  England  was  sharply  discriminated  from  old  England.  The 
atmosphere,  however,  into  which  he  was  born,  was  a  fresh,  clear,  and  not  unscholarly  one. 
It  was,  moreover,  charged  with  historical  traditions.  Cambridge  was  a  village,  but  a 
village  dominated  by  college  life.  The  house  in  which  the  poet  was  born  shared  until  a 
recent  day  the  honors  with  the  Craigie  House,  its  neighbor.  Eor  in  the  early  days  of  the 
Revolution,  when  studies  at  Harvard  College  were  suspended,  this  old  gambrel-roofcd 
house  had  been  the  headquarters  of  General  Artemas  Ward  and  of  the  Committee  of 
Safety.  Upon  the  steps  of  the  house  stood  President  Langdon  of  Harvard  College,  so 
tradition  says,  and  prayed  for  the  men,  wrho,  halting  there  a  few  moments,  marched 


xii  OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

forward  under  Colonel  Prescott's  lead  to  throw  up  entrenchments  on  Bunker  Hill  on  the 
night  of  June  16,  1775  ;  and  in  this  house  the  boy's  father,  who  had  passed  his  own 
youth  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution,  was  collecting  the  memorabilia  for  his  substantial 
contribution  to  American  history.  His  mother,  too,  had  her  memory  of  a  hurried  exit 
from  Boston  during  the  siege,  when  she  was  six  years  old. 

The  appearance  of  the  gambrel-roofed  house  has  been  preserved,  fortunately,  in  various 
sketches  and  photographs  ;  Dr.  Holmes  himself,  who  took  a  lively  interest  in  the  camera 
long  before  amateur  photography  was  the  fashion,  made  several  copies  of  it  from  differ 
ent  points  of  view.  But  the  most  indelible  picture  of  the  house  is  in  the  affectionate 
portrait  contained  in  Dr.  Holmes's  writings.  It  is  a  notable  expression  of  the  intense 
ardor  with  which  he  clung  to  places  and  scenes  identified  with  his  life  and  that  of  his 
forbears.  By  his  literary  workmanship  he  made  the  house,  now  vanished,  a  literary 
shrine.  Not  only  in  the  detailed  description  contained  in  The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast-  Table, 
but  in  random  passages  elsewhere,  he  delighted  in  recalling  the  dignified  yet  homely 
structure  which  was  his  first  outward  shell.  "  The  slaughter  of  the  Old  Gambrel-roofed 
House,"  he  says,  "was  a  case  of  justifiable  domicide,"  but  he  mourned  over  the  necessity 
of  its  destruction.  "  Personally,"  he  adds,  "  I  have  a  right  to  mourn  for  it  as  a  part  of 
my  life  gone  from  me.  .  .  .  The  house  in  which  one  drew  his  first  breath  and  where  he 
one  day  came  into  the  consciousness  that  he  was  a  personality,  an  ego.  a  little  universe 
with  a  sky  over  him  all  his  own,  with  a  persistent  identity,  with  the  terrible  responsibility 
of  a  separate,  independent,  inalienable  existence, — that  house  does  not  ask  for  any 
historical  associations  to  make  it  the  centre  of  the  earth  for  him." 

In  the  Introduction  to  A  Mortal  Antipathy,  Dr.  Holmes  has  dwelt  upon  the  conditions 
of  his  childish  life,  the  rural  simplicity  of  nature,  the  hills  which  were  the  playground 
of  his  imagination,  the  glimpses  of  sails  in  the  distance,  even  though  the  water  itself 
was  invisible.  "  I  am  very  thankful,"  he  says,  "  that  the  first  part  of  my  life  was  not 
passed  shut  in  between  high  walls  and  treading  the  unimpressible  and  unsympathetic 
pavement."  The  combination  of  almost  rustic  life  with  academic  dignity  and  high  breed 
ing  which  he  has  witnessed  to  in  autobiographic  passages,  which  Lowell  has  described 
so  felicitously  in  his  Cambridge  Thirty  Years  Ago,  and  which  struck  Clough  so  forcibly 
when  he  was  a  sojourner  there  a  decade  or  two  later,  was  a  note  of  that  culmination  of 
New  England  provincialism  so  notably  reflected  in  much  of  Holmes's  writings.  As  we 
get  farther  away  from  the  period  roughly  circumscribed  between  1815  and  1850,  we 
shall  see  more  clearly  that  it  was  the  flowering  time  of  the  plant  whose  seeds  were  sown 
in  1620-1640,  and  Holmes  was  instinctively  its  poet  and  historian,  as  he  was  in  point  of 
years  the  last  of  the  remarkable  group  always  to  be  associated  with  New  England's 
intellectual  aristocracy. 

Holmes's  early  schooling  after  an  initiation  in  a  dame  school,  where  a  companion  was 
the  late  Bishop  Lee  of  Delaware,  was  under  Master  William  Bigelow,  and  when  ten  years 
old  he  went  to  a  school  in  Cambridgeport,  where  he  had  for  schoolmates  Margaret  Fuller 
and  Richard  Henry  Dana,  whose  famous  kinsman,  Washington  Allston,  glorified  the 
rather  unkempt  Port  with  his  studio.  At  fifteen  he  was  sent  for  special  preparation  to 
Phillips  Academy  at  Andover.  His  life  there,  and  the  companionship  he  enjoyed,  he 
described  in  his  pleasant  paper  Cinders  from  the  Ashes,  and  touched  with  a  kindly  light 
in  his  reminiscent  poem  The  School-Boy. 

He  spent  a  year  at  Andover  and  then  entered  Harvard  College  with  the  class  which 
was  to  graduate  in  1829.  In  those  days  the  classes  at  college  were  smaller  than  now, 
and  as  they  all  joined  in  common  studies,  the  members  of  a  class  came  to  know  one 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH 


another  familiarly  and  to  have  such  a  sense  of  organic  unity  that  long-  after  college  days, 
when  the  members  were  scattered  and  rarely  came  together,  each  still  felt  himself  a 
member  of  his  "  class,"  as  he  might  feel  himself  a  citizen  of  some  particular  city.  The 
complete  roll  of  this  class  will  be  found  in  the  appendix  at  the  close  of  this  volume,  and 
though  no  titles  or  signs  of  honor  are  attached  to  the  names,  the  reader  will  easily  detect 
the  presence  of  men  who  afterward  came  to  great  distinction,  George  Tyler  Bigelow,  for 
a  while  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Massachusetts;  James  Freeman  Clarke, 
the  humane,  independent,  and  courageous  preacher  and  public-spirited  citizen;  Benjamin 
Ivobbins  Curtis,  the  eminent  lawyer;  Benjamin  Peirce,  the  illustrious  mathematician;  Dr. 
S.  F.  Smith,  who  won  national  repute  by  writing  four  seven-line  stanzas  three  years 
after  leaving  college;  and  others  of  less  widespread  fame,  who  yet  were  honored  in  their 
professions  and  offices.  But  the  class  enjoyed  a  distinction  not  granted  to  other  classes, 
for  though  another  college  class,  nine  years  later,  had  a  great  poet  in  James  Russell 
Lowell,  this  alone  had  a  poet  who  year  after  year  at  the  class-meeting  sang  for  them  a 
song  of  memory  and  affection.  It  was  the  same  song  sting  in  many  keys,  and  some  of 
the  music  could  not  be  shut  up  within  narrow  limits,  but  has  found  universal  acceptance 
in  such  lines  as  Bill  and  Joe.  The  group  of  poems  under  the  title  Poems  of  the  Class  of 
'£9  extends  from  1851  to  1889.  On  that  sixtieth  anniversary  of  their  graduation, 
Holmes  laid  down  his  instrument  with  the  tender  lines  After  the  Curfeir.  The  class 
met  once  more  at  Parker's.  Three  only  were  present,  Holmes,  8.  F.  Smith,  and  Samuel 
May.  Then  came  a  meeting  each  of  the  few  remaining  years,  at  Dr.  Holmes's  house, 
quiet,  social  talks,  with  four  at  the  most,  five  being  the  total  number  of  the  survivors;  but 
no  more  poems. 

The  college,  meanwhile,  was  so  small  a  body,  and  was  so  representative  of  neighboring 
families,  that  Holmes  naturally  found  comrades  and  intimate  friends  outside  his  own 
class.  Charles  Sunnier  was  in  the  class  below  him,  and  two  classes  below  were  his  own 
famous  cousin,  Wendell  Phillips,  and  his  life-long  friend  John  Lothrop  Motley.  It 
became  his  privilege  to  write  Motley's  memoir,  and  the  correspondence  between  the  two, 
given  in  part  in  Curtis's  Letters  of  John  Lolling)  Motley,  intimates  the  closeness  of  their 
relation.  As  Holmes  struck  root  deeply  in  the  soil  of  his  forefathers,  so  his  nature  went 
out  in  steadfast  affection  toward  his  fellows.  His  rosary  of  class  poems  shows  this,  and 
the  many  passages  in  which  he  recalls  his  early  associates.  When  he  had  finished  his 
memoir  of  Motley,  he  wrote  in  warm  remembrance  of  his  task  :  "  Did  not  my  own  con 
sciousness  migrate,  or  seem,  at  least,  to  transfer  itself  into  this  brilliant  life  history,  as  I 
traced  its  glowing  record  ?  I,  too,  seemed  to  feel  the  delight  of  carrying  with  me,  as  if 
they  were  my  own,  the  charms  of  a  presence  which  made  its  own  welcome  everywhere. 
I  shared  his  heroic  toils,  I  partook  of  his  literary  and  social  triumphs,  I  was  honored  by 
the  marks  of  distinction  which  gathered  about  him,  I  was  wronged  by  the  indignity  from 
which  he  suffered,  mourned  with  him  in  his  sorrow,  and  thus,  after  I  had  been  living  for 
months  with  his  memory,  I  felt  as  if  I  should  carry  a  part  of  his  being  with  me  so  long 
as  my  self-consciousness  might  remain  imprisoned  in  the  ponderable  elements." 

The  slight  references  which  Dr.  Holmes  makes  to  his  college  life  have  to  do  with 
external  things,  trifling  oddities  which  stick  to  the  memory  like  burrs.  The  student  life 
in  its  formal  relation  made  but  little  impression  on  him  apparently,  and  in  later  years  he 
was  more  likely  to  take  pride  in  the  great  advance  made  by  the  University  than  to  dwell 
upon  its  worth  in  his  own  day.  "  During  all  my  early  years,"  he  says,  "  our  old  Harvard 
Alma  Mater  sat  still  and  lifeless  as  the  colossi  in  the  Egyptian  desert.  Then  all  at  once, 
like  the  statue  in  Don  Giovanni,  she  moved  from  her  pedestal.  The  fall  of  that  '  stony 


xiv  OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES 

foot '  has  effected  a  miracle  like  the  harp  that  Orpheus  played,  like  the  teeth  that  Cad- 
inus  sowed."  But  that  was  long  after  his  own  college  days.  His  predilection  for  litera 
ture  and  his  irrepressible  humor  were  evident  in  the  spontaneous,  mirthful  verses  which 
came  from  him  at  this  time,  some  before  and  some  just  after  graduation.  Many  of  them 
were  printed  in  The  Collegian,  the  college  paper  of  the  day,  and  in  the  collection  of  his 
poems  they  are  divided  between  the  group  of  Earlier  Poems  and  the  Verses  from  the 
Oldest  Portfolio.  The  most  active  pen  production  was  in  the  year  after  graduation,  when 
he  was  studying  law. 

It  was  then  that  he  wrote  the  poem  Old  Ironsides,  in  a  burst  of  indignation  as  he  has 
described  in  the  note  at  the  head  of  the  poem.  The  verses  are  fresh  evidence  of  that 
well  of  patriotism  which  lay  near  the  surface  of  his  nature,  ever  ready  to  spring  forth 
into  song  or  impassioned  prose.  It  is  notable  that  two  young  men  of  the  same  college 
class  should  so  shortly  after  their  graduation  have  produced  two  pieces  of  verse  which 
are  among  the  most  famous  of  American  patriotic  poems,  the  one  a  fervent  hymn,  the 
other  a  trumpet  call.  The  study  of  law  was  an  experiment  and  apparently  not  carried 
on  with  very  close  or  serious  application.  "  For  during  that  year,"  says  Holmes,  "  I  first 
tasted  the  intoxicating  pleasure  of  authorship.  A  college  periodical  conducted  by  friends 
of  mine,  still  undergraduates,  tempted  me  into  print,  and  there  is  no  form  of  lead  poison 
ing  which  more  rapidly  and  thoroughly  pervades  the  blood  and  bones  and  marrow  than 
that  which  reaches  the  young  author  through  mental  contact  with  type-metal.  ...  In 
that  fatal  year  I  had  my  first  attack  of  author's  lead-poisoning,  and  I  have  never  quite 
got  rid  of  it  from  that  day  to  this." 

Dr.  Holmes,  writing  fifty  years  or  more  after  first  taking  up  the  study  of  medicine, 
was  unable  to  recall  the  precise  reasoning  which  led  him  to  make  the  change  of  intended 
profession.  The  aptitude  which  he  disclosed  for  it  is  sufficient  explanation  now,  and  it  is 
very  possible  that,  though  his  tastes  were  strongly  literary,  he  yielded  to  that  conviction 
;  which  so  sane  a  man  was  sure  to  have,  that  it  would  be  unwise  to  depend  upon  letters  for 
his  daily  bread,  and  so  chose  a  profession  which  appealed  to  the  humane  interest  and  the 
scientific  temper  which  were  scarcely  less  prominent  in  his  make-up.  He  studied  partly 
in  a  private  medical  school  carried  on  then  by  physicians  and  surgeons  in  Boston  in  good 
practice,  two  of  whom  were  also  professors  in  the  Harvard  Medical  School,  and  he 
attended  lectures  also  in  this  school,  a  division  probably  not  unlike  that  which  still  pre 
vails  more  or  less  in  the  legal  profession.  In  April,  1833,  however,  he  went  abroad  to 
avail  himself  of  the  more  considerable  opportunities  for  study  in  Paris,  and  remained 
abroad  until  October,  1835. 

Upon  his  return  to  America,  Dr.  Holmes  began  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  Boston, 
but  a  phrase  or  two  in  his  reminiscences,  suggests  one  reason  for  the  readiness  with  which 
he  soon  turned  to  academic  work,  and  they  substantiate  the  notion  already  formed  of  a 
very  fundamental  characteristic.  In  recalling  his  initiation  into  the  study  of  medicine 
in  Boston,  he  refers  lightly  to  the  first  impressions  produced  upon  him  by  the  anatomical 
skeleton  and  the  white  faces  of  the  patients  in  the  hospital.  "  All  this  had  to  pass  away 
in  a  little  time,"  he  adds.  "  I  had  chosen  my  profession,  and  must  meet  its  painful  and 
repulsive  aspects  until  they  lost  their  power  over  my  sensibilities."  A  half-century  after 
that  first  experience  he  could  still  write,  upon  the  occasion  of  his  second  journey,  after 
the  long  interval,  to  Paris,  that  he  shrank  from  seeing  La  Pitid,  the  hospital  where  he 
worked  in  his  student  days.  No  one  would  know  him  there ;  they  would  scarcely  remem 
ber  anything  of  his  old  master,  Louis,  and  besides,  he  goes  on,  "  I  have  not  been  among 
hospital  beds  for  many  a  year,  and  my  sensibilities  are  almost  as  impressible  as  they  were 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xv 

before  daily  habit  had  rendered  them  comparatively  callous."  Something,  also,  may  have 
been  due  to  the  very  close  scientific  methods  with  which  he  became  enamored  when 
studying  in  Paris,  methods  which  constantly  lend  themselves  to  the  service  of  the  investi 
gator,  and  tend  to  lead  one  to  make  his  practice  experimental  rather  than  therapeutic. 
At  any  rate,  he  accepted  the  professorship  of  anatomy  and  physiology  at  Dartmouth 
College  in  1839,  though  he  remained  in  that  position  only  a  few  months,  not  aban 
doning  the  practice  of  medicine  in  Boston  ;  he  married  Amelia  Lee  Jackson,  daughter 
of  Judge  Charles  Jackson  of  the  Supreme  Judicial  Court  of  Massachusetts,  and  in  1847 
was  made  Parkman  Professor  of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  in  the  Medical  School  of  Har 
vard  College,  a  position  which  he  retained  until  the  close  of  1882. 

In  a  biographical  sketch  designed  to  accompany  a  collection  of  Holmes's  poems,  it  is 
not  to  be  expected  that  much  attention  should  be  given  to  the  scientific  side  of  his  activ 
ity,  but  it  would  be  an  unequal  sketch  which  failed  to  take  account  of  both  sides  of  so 
animated  a  life,  especially  since  they  could  not  be,  in  the  order  of  nature,  absolutely  dis 
sociated.  It  is  a  coincidence  worth  noting  that  the  year  when  Dr.  Holmes  took  his 
degree  as  doctor  of  medicine,  1836,  was  the  year  also  in  which  he  published  his  first  vol 
ume  of  verse.  The  Phi  Beta  Kappa  society  is  a  somewhat  loose  league  of  scholarship  in 
American  colleges,  an  order  in  which  the  merit  system,  as  governed  by  the  standard  of 
collegiate  rank,  determines  membership,  though  after  admission  to  the  league  the  mem 
bers  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  perpetuate  it.  At  Harvard  there  has  long  been  a  double 
yearly  function  for  the  society,  a  dinner,  at  which  wit  is  more  abundant  than  wine,  and  a 
public  meeting  with  an  oration  and  poem.  Oratory  has  flourished  in  this  soil,  and  notable 
addresses  have  been  made  by  Everett  and  Emerson  in  early  days,  by  Adams  and  Fiske 
in  later  ones,  and  by  many  more  who  have  chosen  the  occasion  for  saying  what  they  have 
wished  to  say  to  an  audience  of  their  peers.  But  poetry,  which  shuns  occasions,  has  only 
now  and  then  jumped  with  the  hour.  Scarcely  a  poet  of  distinction,  however,  but  has 
hoped  he  too  might  so  force  nature  that  poetry  would  somehow  find  wings  for  Phi  Beta 
Kappa. 

It  is  indicative  of  the  reputation  which  Holmes  had  already  formed  that  though  lie  had 
been  absent  on  his  professional  study  for  two  or  three  years,  he  was  called  on,  seven 
years  after  graduation,  to  deliver  the  poem  at  the  commencement  in  1830.  With  an 
instinct  for  what  was  appropriate  on  occasions  which  never  failed  him,  he  read  the  poem, 
Poetry,  a  Metrical  Easay,  which  is  included  in  the  first  division  of  his  poetical  writings. 
As  the  reader  will  see  by  the  notes,  the  poem  carried  as  interludes  two  lyrics  already 
printed,  The  Cambridge  Churchyard  and  Old  Ironsides.  The  introduction  of  these  verses 
was  doubtless  most  effective  in  delivery,  and  served  to  interrupt  the  essay  in  an  agreeable 
fashion,  but  both  the  body  of  the  poem  and  the  preface  with  which  it  was  introduced, 
when  shortly  after  it  appeared  with  a  collection  of  poems  written  in  the  interval  since 
leaving  college,  as  a  single  volume,  indicate  the  seriousness  with  which  the  young  poet 
regarded  his  vocation.  Spontaneity  was  a  birthright,  but  he  did  not  therefore  disregard 
or  flout  at  traditional  form  and  accepted  standards.  On  the  contrary,  he  showed  unmis 
takably  that  he  belonged  to  the  order  of  poets,  not  to  the  disorder  of  the  poetic  mob,  and 
thus  the  volume  which  heralded  his  accession  to  literature  was  a  witness  to  the  perma 
nence  of  his  foothold. 

This  volume  Poetry,  as  we  have  said,  was  published  in  1836,  and  the  next  year  he 
published  a  medical  treatise.  Thus  neck  and  neck  at  the  start  were  the  two  horses  he 
continued  to  ride  for  many  years.  He  did  not  publish  a  volume  of  poetry  again  until 
1847,  the  year  in  which  he  abandoned  the  practice  of  medicine,  and  then  he  gathered  the 


xvi  OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES 


fugitive  poems  which  had  been  appearing  in  periodicals,  or  had  been  used  on  occasions 
since  the  publication  of  Poetry.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  among  the  occasional  poems 
were  some  called  out  by  his  professional  relations,  as  well  as  one  or  two,  not  occasional, 
which  were  inspired  by  his  study  and  practice  ;  so  impossible  was  it  for  him  to  sever  his 
life,  as  did  Bryant,  who  seemed  to  keep  journalism  in  one  cell  of  his  brain  and  poetry  in 
another,  each  in  solitary  confinement  and  forbidden  to  hold  intercourse  with  each  other. 
The  volume  of  1847  contained  also  the  contents  of  the  volume  of  183G,  and  the  poetry  in 
this  consolidated  volume  was  substantially  that  included  in  the  first  three  divisions  of  the 
present  collection  and  the  group  of  poems  which  form  the  first  section  of  the  Appendix. 
The  volume  was  reprinted  in  England,  and  for  some  time  to  come  represented  the  claim 
which  Holmes  might  make  to  a  place  among  poets. 

The  decade  which  followed  the  publication  of  this  volume  was  nevertheless  a  period 
both  of  ripening  and  of  product.  It  was  undoubtedly  the  time  in  which  a  large  part  of 
the  work  was  done  in  the  preparation  of  the  long  series  of  lectures  which  the  Parkman 
professor  delivered  before  his  classes.  The  volume  of  Medical  Essays  in  his  collected 
works  contain  papers  and  discourses  which  belong  to  this  decade  and  to  the  whole  period 
of  his  professorship,  but  the  printed  matter  bears  a  very  small  proportion  to  the  whole 
volume  of  his  professional  writing  and  speaking.  In  his  Farewell  Address  to  the  Medical 
School,  delivered  November  28,  1882,  he  says  :  "  This  is  the  thirty-sixth  Course  of  Lec 
tures  in  which  I  have  taken  my  place  and  performed  my  duties  as  Professor  of  Anatomy. 
For  more  than  half  my  term  of  office  I  gave  instruction  in  Physiology,  after  the  fashion 
of  my  predecessors  and  in  the  manner  then  generally  prevalent  in  our  schools,  where  the 
physiological  laboratory  was  not  a  necessary  part  of  the  apparatus  of  instruction."  Pres 
ident  Eliot  bore  testimony  to  the  fidelity  with  which  he  carried  on  his  academic  work  : 
"  He  did  a  great  deal  to  make  the  school  what  it  has  become.  He  lectured  regularly 
five  times  a  week  throughout  the  school  year,  and  never  failed  to  be  on  hand.  He  was 
the  most  careful  of  men  in  preparation  of  his  lectures,  and  very  painstaking  in  his  experi 
ments.  He  was  very  exact  in  dissection.  His  prosectors,  whose  duty  it  was  to  prepare 
his  dissections,  were  always  kept  on  the  qui  vive  and  spurred  to  their  very  best  effort." 
It  should  not  be  overlooked  that  one  of  his  medical  writings,  The  Contagiousness  of  Puer 
peral  Fever,  first  published  in  1843  and  reissued  in  an  enlarged  form  in  1855,  was  a  dis 
tinct  contribution  to  science  and  revolutionized  the  practice  of  physicians. 

But  the  sessions  of  the  medical  school  were  not  continuous  through  the  year,  and  Dr. 
Holmes 's  intellectual  activity,  moreover,  could  not  be  confined  within  the  limits  of  his 
professional  duties.  His  scientific  studies  took  him  further  afield,  and  his  literary  inter 
ests,  with  which  we  have  mainly  to  do,  had  already  been  determined  by  his  early  taste 
and  inclination.  At  the  time  of  which  we  are  writing,  the  lecture  system  was  popular, 
and  offered  to  men  of  letters  a  means  of  livelihood  and  a  form  of  publication.  As  the 
lectures,  however,  were  for  the  most  part  during  the  academic  year,  it  was  not  expedient 
for  Professor  Holmes  to  stray  very  far  from  home  ;  so,  unlike  Emerson,  he  was  practi 
cally  confined  to  a  circle  within  a  short  radius  of  Boston.  In  the  Autocrat  he  has  given 
humorous  reminiscences  of  some  of  his  experience  as  a  lecturer,  and  in  a  bit  of  scholastic 
fun  has  hinted  at  the  very  close  connection  between  speaking  and  writing  in  the  vocation 
of  a  man  of  letters.  He  made  his  own  lectures  also  the  occasion  for  postludes  of  song. 
This  he  did  with  special  grace  in  a  course  before  the  Lowell  Institute  of  Boston  on 
The  English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.  The  characterizations  of  Wordsworth, 
Moore,  Keats,  and  Shelley  were  here  produced.  On  special  occasions,  also,  he  was  ora 
tor,  though  the  more  insistent  demand  was  for  his  poetry. 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH 


xvn 


Dr.  Holmes  is  strongly  indentified  with  Cambridge  and  Boston  by  his  residence  in  those 
two  places;  but,  as  some  of  his  poems  hint,  he  had  another  home  at  Pittsfield  in  the  west 
ern  part  of  the  State,  where  he  lived  for  seven  summers.  He  was  drawn  to  the  locality 
by  the  association  of  Pittsfield  with  his  great-grandfather,  Colonel  Jacob  Wendell,  who 
had  a  homestead  there  in  the  eighteenth  century.  In  1844  he  was  invited  to  attend  the 
Berkshire  Jubilee,  where  he  read  the  lines  beginning 

"  Come  back  to  your  mother,  ye  children,  for  shame.'' 

He  seems  to  have  heeded  his  own  invitation,  for  in  the  summer  of  1848  he  built  a  cottage 
on  his  inherited  estate.  Longfellow,  who,  through  his  wife's  family,  the  Appletons,  had 
also  an  interest  in  Pittsfield  and  spent  many  weeks  there,  wrote  in  his  journal,  under 
date  of  August  5,  1848  :  "  Drove  over,  in  the  afternoon,  to  Dr.  Ilolmes's  house  on  the 
old  Wendell  farm, —  a  snug  little  place,  with  views  of  the  river  and  the  mountains."  And 
Dr.  Holmes  himself,  writing  in  January,  1857,  says,  "  Seven  sweet  summers,  the  hap 
piest  of  my  life.  I  would  n't  exchange  the  recollection  of  them  for  a  suburban  villa.  One 
thing  I  shall  always  be  glad  of  ;  that  I  planted  seven  hundred  trees  for  somebody  to  sit 
in  the  shade  of."  There  is  more  than  one  reference  in  his  writings  to  his  country  life 
there,  and  among  his  poems  some  which  owed  their  origin  to  occasions  in  his  neighbor 
hood.  Others  there  are  which  sang  themselves  out  of  the  nature  in  which  he  lived. 
Indeed,  as  Mr.  Smith  points  out  in  his  interesting  sketch,1  the  poems  which  were  written 
in  Berkshire  were  lacking  in  scientific  reference  and  in  fun  ;  "  It  is  Xaturc  herself  that 
breathes  through  each  and  every  line."  Later  in  life  he  made  a  summer  home  for  him 
self  at  Beverly  Farms  on  the  north  shore  of  Massachusetts  Bay. 

With  the  close  of  this  decade,  1847-1857,  there  came  a  new  flowering  forth  of 
Ilolmes's  genius,  which  took  a  form  worth  noting,  since,  being  his  own,  it  served  most 
perfectly  to  embody  his  spiritual  power.  In  the  third  of  what  is  popularly  known  as 
The  Breakfast-Table  scries,  namely,  The  Poet  at  the  Breakfmt-Tuhle,  the  author  dis 
tinctly  says,  what  the  observant  reader  of  the  scries  will  be  pretty  sure  to  discover  for 
himself  :  — 

"I  have  unburdened  myself  in  this  book,  and  in  some  other  pages,  of  what  I  was  born 
to  say.  Many  things  that  I  have  said  in  my  riper  days  have  been  aching  in  my  soul 
since  I  was  a  mere  child.  I  say  aching,  because  they  conflicted  with  many  of  my  in 
herited  beliefs,  or  rather  traditions.  I  did  not  know  then  that  "two  strains  of  blood  were 
striving  in  me  for  the  mastery,  —  two  !  twenty,  perhaps, —  twenty  thousand  for  aught  I 
know,  —  but  represented  to  me  by  two,  —  paternal  and  maternal.  But  I  do  know  this  : 
I  have  struck  a  good  many  chords,  first  and  last,  in  the  consciousness  of  other  people. 
I  confess  to  a  tender  feeling  for  my  little  brood  of  thoughts.  When  they  have  been 
welcomed  and  praised  it  has  pleased  me  ;  and  if  at  any  time  they  have  been  rudely 
handled  and  despitefully  treated,  it  has  cost  me  a  little  worry.  I  don't  despise  reputa 
tion,  and  I  should  like  to  be  remembered  as  having  said  something  worth  lasting  well 
enough  to  last." 

This  passage  presents  briefly  three  very  noticeable  characteristics  of  Dr.  Ilolmes's 
prose  as  contained  in  the  series  of  Atlantic  papers  and  stories.  They  give  the  mature 
thought  of  the  writer,  held  back  through  many  years  for  want  of  an  adequate  occasion, 
and  ripened  in  his  mind  during  this  enforced  silence  ;  they  illustrate  the  effect  upon  his 
thought  of  his  professional  studies,  which  predisposed  him  to  treat  of  the  natural  history 

1  The  Poet  Among  the  Hills.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  iu  Berkshire.  By  J.  E.  A.  SMITH.  Pitts- 
field,  Massachusetts.  George  BlatcMord,  1895. 


xviii  OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 

of  man,  and  to  import  into  his  analysis  of  the  invisible  organism  of  life  the  terms  and 
methods  employed  in  the  science  of  the  visible  anatomy  and  physiology  ;  and  finally 
they  are  warm  with  a  sympathy  for  men  and  women,  and  singularly  felicitous  in  their 
expression  of  many  of  the  indistinct  and  half-understood  experiences  of  life.  Yet  behind 
this  threefold  manifestation  of  individual  genius  one  looks  for  the  personality  itself 
thus  disclosed,  and,  guided  by  the  clue  offered  in  the  biography  of  the  author  as  already 
traced,  sees  the  vivid  nature,  sensitive  to  impressions,  yet  stable  through  a  substantial 
hold  upon  a  highly  developed  community,  the  product  of  generations  of  specialized 
forces  charged  with  electrical  power  and  leaping  into  the  light  with  gladness.  We  may 
please  ourselves  with  the  notion  that  the  pent-up  experience  of  New  England  found  a 
vent  in  Dr.  Holmes,  but  after  all  the  nearest  fact,  behind  which  we  need  not  go  unless  we 
choose,  is  that  of  a  person  speaking  outright  and  not  afraid  of  a  large  /.  This  note  of 
egotism  which  was  struck  at  once  in  the  very  title,  so  felicitous,  of  the  first  book,  sounds 
throughout  the  series  and  gives  it  its  undying  charm  ;  for  the  man  who  does  not  shield 
himself  behind  the  autobiographic  form  is  rare,  and  the  man  who  can  dramatize  other 
figures  about  a  central  one,  and  make  that  central  one  at  once  dramatic  and  dominant,  is 
rarer  still. 

For  the  form  of  these  writings,  it  may  be  said  that  the  impression  produced  upon  the 
reader  of  the  Autocrat  series,  which  was  finally  gathered  into  a  volume,  is  of  a  growth 
rather  than  of  a  premeditated  artistic  completeness,  and  this  makes  more  evident  the 
mature  character  of  the  work  and  its  closeness  to  the  personality  of  the  writer.  The 
first  suggestion,  as  Holmes  points  out  in  The  Autocrat's  Autobiography,  is  to  be  found  in 
the  two  papers  published,  under  the  title  of  The  Autocrat  of  the  Break  fast-Table,  in  The 
New  England  Magazine  for  November,  1831,  and  January,  1832.  These  were  written 
by  Dr.  Holmes  shortly  after  his  graduation  from  college,  and  before  he  entered  on  his 
medical  studies.  They  consist  of  brief  epigrammatic  observations  upon  various  topics, 
the  desultory  talk  of  a  person  engrossing  conversation  at  a  table.  The  form  is  mono 
logue,  with  scarcely  more  than  a  hint  at  interruptions,  and  no  attempt  at  characterizing 
the  speaker  or  his  listeners.  Twenty-five  years  later,  when  The  Atlantic  Monthly  was 
founded,  the  author  remembering  the  fancy  resumed  it,  and  under  the  same  title  began 
a  series  of  papers  which  at  once  had  great  favor  and  grew,  possibly,  beyond  the  writer's 
original  intention.  Twenty-five  years  had  not  dulled  the  wit  and  gayety  of  the  exuber 
ant  young  writer  ;  rather  they  had  ripened  the  early  fruit,  and  imparted  a  richness  of 
flavor  which  greatly  increased  the  value.  The  maturity  was  seen  not  only  in  the  wider 
reach  and  deeper  tone  of  the  talk,  but  in  the  humanizing  of  the  scheme.  Out  of  the 
talk  at  the  breakfast-table  one  began  to  distinguish  characters  and  faces  in  the  persons 
about  the  board,  and  before  the  Autocrat  was  completed  there  had  appeared  a  series  of 
portraits,  vivid  and  full  of  interest. 

Two  characters  meanwhile  were  hinted  at  by  Dr.  Holmes  rather  than  described  or  very 
palpably  introduced,  —  the  Professor  and  the  Poet.  It  is  not  difficult  to  see  that  these 
are  thin  disguises  for  the  author  himself,  who,  in  the  versatility  of  his  nature,  appeals  to 
the  reader  now  as  a  brilliant  philosopher,  now  as  a  man  of  science,  now  as  a  seer  and 
poet.  The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast-Table  followed,  and  there  was  a  still  stronger  dra 
matic  element ;  some  of  the  former  characters  remained,  and  others  of  even  more  posi 
tive  individuality  were  added  ;  a  romance  was  inwoven  and  something  like  a  plot 
sketched,  so  that,  while  the  talk  still  went  on  and  eddied  about  graver  subjects  than 
before,  the  book  which  grew  out  of  the  papers  had  more  distinctly  the  form  of  a  series 
of  sketches  from  life.  It  was  followed  by  two  novels,  Elsie  Venner  and  The  Guardian 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xix 


Angel.  The  talks  at  the  breakfast-table  had  often  gravitated  toward  the  deep  themes  of 
destiny  and  human  freedom  ;  the  novels  wrought  the  same  subjects  in  the  form  of  fiction, 
and  action  interpreted  the  thought,  while  still  there  flowed  on  the  wonderful,  apparently 
inexhaustible  stream  of  wit,  tenderness,  passion,  and  human  sympathy.  Fourteen  years 
after  the  appearance  of  the  first  of  the  series,  came  The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast-Table.  A 
new  group  of  characters,  with  slight  reminders  of  former  ones,  occupied  the  pages  ; 
again  talk  and  romance  blended  ;  and  playfulness,  satire,  sentiment,  wise  reflection  and 
sturdy  indignation  trooped  across  the  pages. 

The  Breakfast-Table  series  forms  a  group  independent  of  the  intercalated  novels,  and 
with  its  frequent  poems  may  be  taken  as  an  artistic  whole.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to 
say,  that  it  makes  a  new  contribution  to  the  forms  of  literary  art.  It  was  not  altogether 
novel.  Such  a  book  as  Southey's  The  Doctor,  for  example,  might  be  cited  as  a  progeni 
tor.  Still  all  that  went  before  it  were  characterized  more  by  negligence  and  an  unordered 
freedom.  The  distinctive  mark  of  the  Autocrat  and  its  fellows  was,  as  we  have  hinted, 
the  frank  dominance  of  the  author's  personality.  The  elasticity  of  the  scheme  rendered 
possible  a  comprehensiveness  of  material  ;  the  exuberance  of  the  author's  fancy  and  the 
fullness  of  his  thought  gave  a  richness  to  the  fabric  ;  the  poetic  sense  of  fitness  kept  the 
whole  within  just  bounds.  It  is  illustrative  of  the  native,  personal  character  of  this 
series,  so  stamped  with  his  genius,  that  when  in  his  old  age  Holmes  felt  a  desire  to  write 
again,  deliberately  and  at  length,  he  returned  to  the  same  form,  and  in  Over  the  Tea 
cups  essayed  the  old  happy  blending  of  prose  and  verse,  the  vivification  of  characters 
supposed  to  carry  on  discussion  about  a  social  board,  when  in  reality  one  dominant 
voice,  even  if  sometimes  veiitriloquial,  is  heard  throughout,  —  that  of  the  inventor  of  the 
characters.  And  it  is  interesting  to  observe  how  shadowy  at  the  last  these  characters 
have  become,  so  that  they  are  scarcely  more  than  numerical,  and  how  instinctively  the 
old  man,  musing  over  the  board,  has  surrounded  himself  with  the  gracious  presences  of 
women. 

The  form  of  these  books  made  poetical  interludes  easy  and  natural.  Sometimes  the 
verses  introduced  were  not  blossoms  upon  the  wandering  vine,  but  cut  flowers  fastened 
carelessly  for  the  lightening  of  the  effect  ;  for  the  most  part,  however,  they  seem  to 
belong  where  we  find  them,  and  a  survey  of  the  groups  as  presented  in  this  volume  con 
firms  this  impression.  When  arranging  his  poems  for  a  final  collective  edition,  Dr. 
Holmes  brought  together  in  successive  sections  the  poems  from  each  of  the  Breakfast- 
Table  series,  but  removed  those  poems  which  had  been  more  arbitrarily  placed  first  in 
these  books,  such  as  those  more  properly  arranged  under  the  heading  Poems  of  the  Class 
of ''29.  Thus  the  poems  included  in  The  Professor  are  quite  distinctly  the  outgrowth  of 
that  strain  of  religious  speculation  which  characterizes  the  work  ;  they  are  positive  affir 
mations,  as  if  the  author  found  a  relief  in  occasional  clear  poetic  expression  when  en 
gaged  in  the  heat  of  theological  discussion.  The  series  Wind-Clouds  and  Star-Drifts,  on 
the  other  hand,  which  constitutes  the  main  poetic  apparatus  of  The  Poet,  is  more  dis 
tinctly  philosophical  in  its  nature;  but  when  one  turns  to  the  volume  and  notes  the  form 
of  insertion,  he  is  reminded  that  the  whole  book  is  soberer  in  tone  and  more  taken  up 
with  the  structural  treatment  of  the  mysteries  of  human  life,  whereas  The  Professor  was 
quite  as  markedly  critical  and  more  than  once  destructive  of  notions  and  conventions. 
The  poems  in  The  Autocrat  partake  of  the  swift,  varied  play  of  that  book,  and  those  in 
Over  the  Teacups  show  the  flaring  up  now  and  then  of  the  old  flame  as  the  book  itself  is 
more  or  less  of  an  effort. 

For  the  purpose  of  treating  this  notable  series  as  a  whole,  we  have  departed  from  a 


xx  OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

strictly  chronological  survey  of  Dr.  Holines's  career.  The  Autocrat  appeared  in  1857- 
1858,  The  Professor  in  1859.  The  gap  of  fourteen  years  which  intervened  between 
this  book  and  The  Poet  is  represented  in  the  poetical  writings  by  the  collection  under 
the  title  Songs  of  Many  Seasons,  and  both  the  subdivisions  of  that  section  and  the  titles 
of  many  of  the  poems  intimate  how  much  the  author's  thoughts  were  upon  the  great 
affairs  which  stirred  his  own  country,  —  the  war,  the  restoration  of  peace,  and  the 
beginning  of  that  second  great  ingathering  of  the  nations  which  will  render  the  period 
following  the  war  a  great  period  in  American  history.  He  has  left  his  impressions  both 
in  prose  and  in  verse.  The  Atlantic  Monthly  afforded  a  convenient  vehicle,  as  did  the 
several  occasions  now  kept  alive  by  his  verses.  One  of  his  notable  papers  was  that 
entitled  My  Hunt  after  "  the  Captain"  and  details  his  experience  when  going  to  the  seat  of 
war  in  the  fall  of  1862  on  the  occasion  of  the  wounding  of  a  son,  who  bears  his  father's 
name  and  is  now  a  justice  on  the  bench  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Massachusetts. 

When  John  Lothrop  Motley  died,  Dr.  Holmes  wrote  a  sketch  of  him  for  the  Massa 
chusetts  Historical  Society,  which  was  afterward  expanded  and  published  as  a  volume. 
The  book  is  more  than  a  friendly  testimony,  it  is  an  expression  of  patriotism.  No  one 
need  be  told  who  has  read  that,  and  the  letters  which  he  himself  wrote  to  Motley,  his 
Bread  and  the  Newspaper,  his  oration  on  The  Inevitable  Trial,  and  the  lyrics  which  are 
comprehended  under  the  title  In  War  Time,  that  the  author  of  Old  Ironsides  had  an 
ardent  affection  for  the  nation  and  a  large-hearted  belief  in  it.  And  yet  great  crises 
brought  these  expressions  to  pass;  his  familiar  habit  of  mind  was  cordially  local.  His 
affection  fastened  upon  his  college,  and  in  his  college  on  his  class;  he  had  a  worthy  pride 
in  the  race  from  which  he  had  sprung,  and  the  noble  clannishness  which  is  one  of  the 
safeguards  of  soeial  morality;  he  loved  the  city  of  his  life,  not  with  the  merely  curious 
regard  of  the  antiquary,  but  with  the  passion  of  the  man  who  can  be  at  home  only  in  one 
place ;  and  he  held  to  New  England  as  to  a  substantial  entity,  not  to  a  geographical 
section  of  some  greater  whole.  He  did  not  travel,  because  Boston  and  Berkshire  con 
tented  him.  His  laboratory  was  at  hand;  human  nature  was  under  his  observation  from 
the  vantage-ground  of  home.  With  the  instinct  of  a  man  of  science,  he  took  for  analysis 
that  which  was  most  familiar  to  him,  assured  that  in  the  bit  of  the  world  where  he  was 
born,  and  out  of  which  he  had  got  his  nourishment,  he  had  all  he  needed  for  the  exercise 
.  of  his  wit.  There  is  no  more  pathetic  yet  kindly  figure  in  our  literature  than  Little 
Boston.  With  poetic  instinct,  Dr.  Holmes  made  him  deformed,  but  not  ugly.  He  put 
into  him  a  fiery  soul  of  local  patriotism,  and  transfigured  him  thus.  Under  the  guise  of 
a  bit  of  nature's  mockery  he  was  enabled  to  give  vent  to  a  flood  of  feeling  without 
arousing  laughter  or  contempt.  All  Little  Boston's  vehemence  of  civic  pride  is  a  memo 
rial  inscription,  and  whatever  may  be  the  fortune  of  the  city,  however  august  may  be  its 
presence,  there  lies  embedded  in  this  figure  of  Little  Boston  a  perpetual  witness  to  an 
imperishable  civic  personality. 

The  poems  which  occupy  the  closing  sections'  of  this  volume,  Bunker-Hill  Battle  and 
other  Poems,  The  Iron  Gate  and  other  Poems,  and  Before  the  Curfew,  bear  frequent  witness 
to  the  strength  of  Dr.  Holines's  fidelity  to  his  people  and  his  country.  They  hint  also, 
as  do  his  later  writings,  of  that  temper  which  was  growing  upon  him,  so  beautifully 
reflected  in  his  own  verse  :  — 

"  Youth  longs  and  manhood  strives,  but  age  remembers, 

Sits  by  the  raked-up  ashes  of  the  past, 
Spreads  its  thin  hands  above  the  whitening  embers 
That  warm  its  creeping  life-blood  till  the  last." 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH  xxi 


Thus  lie  wrote  for  the  breakfast  given  him  by  the  publishers  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly  at 
the  close  of  1879.  Yet  in  1886  he  made  with  his  daughter  a  journey  to  Europe.  Most 
of  the  time  was  passed  in  England,  where  the  journey  was  like  a  Royal  Progress.  "  The 
travellers,"  says  the  London  Daily  News,  "  had  barely  arrived  when  invitations  came 
pouring  in  upon  them.  They  received  their  '  baptism  of  fire  '  in  that  long  conflict  which 
lasts  through  the  London  season,  on  the  first  evening  of  their  arrival  in  town.  It  con 
sisted  of  a  dinner,  where  twenty  guests,  celebrities  and  agreeable  persons,  were  assembled 
to  meet  them.  The  dinner  was  followed  by  a  grand  reception.  Then  began  a  perpetual 
round  of  social  engagements.  Breakfasts,  luncheons,  dinners,  teas,  receptions,  two,  three 
and  four  deep  of  the  evening,  was  the  order  of  the  waking  hours.  Society  was  charmed 
with  the  genial  philosopher  and  poet.  His  courteous  manner,  his  ready  wit,  the  fasci 
nating  nobility  of  his  countenance,  made  up  a  charming  personality.  There  was  something 
magnetic  in  the  glance  of  his  blue-gray  eye,  in  the  hearty  grasp  of  his  hand.  Dr.  Holmes 
went  to  the  Derby,  impelled  by  the  wish  to  live  again  the  impressions  of  fifty  years  ago. 
But  this  time  he  went  down  in  company  with  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  witnessed  the 
race  from  the  grand  stand.  The  animation  with  which  the  old  man  describes  Ormonde, 
the  beautiful  bay  of  the  Duke  of  Westminster,  flashing  past  ridden  by  Archer,  belongs  to 
spirits  as  buoyant  as  were  those  that  stirred  the  blood  of  the  youth  half  a  century 
before."  The  record  of  the  journey  is  preserved  in  Our  Hundred  Day*  in  Europe. 

He  had  a  mellow  evening  of  life.  As  one  after  another  of  his  comrades  left  the 
world,  he  bade  them  good-by  with  a  song.  Thus  in  his  old  age  he  sang  after  Lowell 
and  Whitticr  and  Parkman  ;  at  last  his  own  voice  was  silent,  and  there  was  no  one  left 
in  his  generation  to  sing  his  farewell,  for  he  it  was  who  brought  up  the  rear  of  the  pro 
cession  of  American  writers  of  the  great  period,  as  one  by  one  passed  into  the  firmament 
of  fame. 

He  died  in  his  home  in  Boston  suddenly,  while  talking  with  his  son,  at  half-past  one, 
Sunday  afternoon,  October  7,  1894,  in  the  eighty-sixth  year  of  his  age. 

II.  E.  S. 


TO    MY    READERS 

[Written  to  introduce  the  Blue  and  Gold  edition  of  Holmos's  Poems, 

NAY,  blame  mo  not:  I  might  have  spared 
Your  patience  many  a  trivial  verse. 

Yet  these  my  earlier  welcome  shaved, 
So,  let  the  better  shield  the  worse. 

And  some  might  say,  i;  Those  ruder  songs 
Had  freshness  which  the  new  have  lost ; 

To  spring  the  opening  leaf  belongs, 
The  chestnut-burs  await  the  frost." 

When  those  I  wrote,  my  locks  were  brown. 
When  these  I  write — all,  wcll-a-day  ! 

The  autumn  thistle's  silvery  down 
Is  not  the  purple  bloom  of  May  ! 

Go.  little  book,  whose  pages  hold 

Those  garnered  years  in  loving  trust  ; 

How  long  before  your  blue  and  gold 
Shall  fade  and  whiten  in  the  dust? 

0  sexton  of  the  alcoved  tomb. 

Where  souls  in  leathern  cerements  lie, 
Tell  me  each  living  poet's  doom  ! 

How  lono-  before  his  book  shall  die  ? 

G 

It  matters  little,  soon  or  late, 

A  day,  a  month,  a  year,  an  age,  — 

1  read  oblivion  in  its  date, 
And  Finis  on  its  title-page. 

Before  we  sighed,  our  griefs  were  told  ; 

Before  we  smiled,  our  joys  were  sung ; 
And  all  our  passions  shaped  of  old 

In  accents  lost  to  mortal  tongue. 

In  vain  a  fresher  mould  we  seek.  — 

Can  all  the  varied  phrases  tell 
That  Babel's  wandering  children  speak 

How  thrushes  sine  or  lilacs  smell  ? 


TO   MY   READERS 


Caged  in  the  poet's  lonely  heart, 

Love  wastes  unheard  its  tenderest  tone  ; 

The  soul  that  sings  must  dwell  apart, 
Its  inward  melodies  unknown. 

Deal  gently  with  us,  ye  who  read ! 

Our  largest  hope  is  unfulfilled,  — 
The  promise  still  outruns  the  deed,  — 

The  tower,  but  not  the  spire,  we  build. 

Our  whitest  pearl  we  never  find  ; 

Our  ripest  fruit  we  never  reach ; 
The  flowering  moments  of  the  mind 

Drop  half  their  petals  in  our  speech. 

These  are  my  blossoms ;  if  they  wear 
One  streak  of  morn  or  evening's  glow, 

Accept  them  ;  but  to  me  more  fair 
The  buds  of  song  that  never  blow. 
April  8,  1862. 


EARLIER   POEMS 


[THE  printing  of  Poetry :  a  Metrical  Essay 
was  nuule  the  occasion  by  the  author  for  pub 
lishing-  the  first  collection  of  his  poems  in  !S-')(>. 
This  contained  the  group  afterward  desig 
nated  Earlier  Poems,  as  well  as  most  of  those 
now  grouped  at  the  end  of  this  volume  under 
the  heading  Verses  from  the  Oldest  Portfolio  ; 
for  when  the  volume  of  his  verse  had  become 
considerable,  Dr.  Holmes  thought  best  to  win 
now  his  first  gathering,  and  to  retain  under  the 
title  Earlier  Poems  those  which  he  regarded 
as  constituent  parts  of  his  poetical  product. 
The  following  passages  are  from  the  Preface, 
dated  Boston,  1  November,  1S)(>,  which  intro 
duced  the  volume. 

"  The  shorter  pieces  are  arranged  mainly 
with  reference  to  the  dignity  of  their  subjects. 
A  fe\v  remarks  with  regard  to  a  species  of 
writing  in  which  the  author  has  occasionally 
indulged,  are  offered  to  the  consideration  of 
those  who  are  disposed  to  criticise  rigorously; 
without  the  intention,  however,  of  justifying 
all  or  any  attempts  at  comic  poetry,  if  they  are 
bad  specimens  of  their  kind. 

"  The  extravagant  is  often  condemned  as  un 
natural;  as  if  a  tendency  of  the  mind,  shown 
in  all  ages  and  forms,  had  not  its  foundation 
in  nature.  A  series  of  hyperbolical  images  is 
considered  beneath  criticism  by  the  same  judges 
who  would  write  treatises  upon  the  sculptured 
satyrs  and  painted  arabesques  of  antiquity, 
which  are  only  hyperbole  in  stone  and  colors. 
As  material  objects  in  different  lights  repeat 
themselves  in  shadows  variously  elongated,  con 
tracted,  or  exaggerated,  so  our  solid  and  sober 
thoughts  caricature  themselves  in  fantastic- 
shapes  inseparable  from  their  originals,  and 
having  a  unity  in  their  extravagance,  which 
proves  them  to  have  retained  their  proportions 
in  certain  respects,  however  differing  in  out 
line  from  their  prototypes.  To  illustrate  this 


by  an  example.  Our  idea  of  a  certain  great 
nation,  an  idea  founded  in  substantial  notions 
of  its  geography,  its  statistics,  its  history,  in 
one  aspect  of  the  miiid  stretches  into  the  sub 
lime  in  the  image  of  Britannia,  and  in  another 
dilates  into  the  sub-ridiculous  in  the  person  of 
John  Hull.  Both  these  personifications  par 
tially  represent  their  object  ;  both  are  useful 
and  philosophical.  And  I  am  not  afraid  to  say 
to  the  declaimers  upon  dignity  of  composition, 
that  a  metrical  arabesque  of  a  storm  or  a  sum 
mer,  if  its  images,  though  hyperbolical,  are 
conceivable,  and  consistent  with  each  other,  is 
a  perfectly  healthy  and  natural  exercise  of  the 
imagination,  and  not,  as  some  might  think,  a 
voluntary  degradation  of  its  office.  I  argue, 
as  1  said  before,  for  a  principle,  and  not  for 
my  own  attempt  at  its  illustration. 

"  I  had  the  intention  of  pointing  out  some 
accidental  plagiarisms,  or  coincidences  as  they 
might  be  more  mildly  called,  discovered  prin 
cipally  by  myself  after  the  composition  of  the 
passages  where  they  occur ;  but  as  they  are,  so 
far  as  I  know,  both  innocent  and  insignificant, 
and  as  I  have  sometimes  had  literary  pick 
pockets  at  my  own  skirts,  I  will  leave  them, 
like  the  apples  of  Atalanta,  as  an  encourage 
ment  to  sagacious  critics,  should  any  such  fol 
low  my  footsteps. 

"  I  have  come  before  the  public  like  an  actor 
who  returns  to  fold  his  robes  and  make  his  bow 
to  the  audience.  Already  engaged  in  other 
duties,  it  has  been  with  some  effort  that  I  have 
found  time  to  adjust  my  own  mantle ;  and 
I  now  willingly  retire  to  more  quiet  labors, 
which,  if  less  exciting,  are  more  certain  to  be 
acknowledged  as  useful  and  received  with 
gratitude  ;  thankful  that,  not  having  staked 
all  my  hopes  upon  a  single  throw,  I  can  sleep 
quietly  after  closing  the  last  leaf  of  my  little 
volume."] 


OLD  IRONSIDES 

This  was  the  popular  name  by  which  the 
frigate  Constitution  was  known.  The  poem 
was  first  printed  in  the  Boston  Daily  Advertiser, 
at  the  time  when  it  was  proposed  to  break 
up  the  old  ship  as  unfit  for  service.  I  subjoin 
the  paragraph  which  led  to  the  writing  of  the 


poem.     It  is  from  the  Advertiser  of  Tuesday, 
September  14,  183U  :  — 

"  Old  Ironsides.  —  It  has  been  affirmed  upon 
good  authority  that  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy 
has  recommended  to  the  Board  of  Navy  Com 
missioners  to  dispose  of  the  frigate  Constitution. 
Since  it  has  been  understood  that  such  a  step 
was  in  contemplation  we  have  heard  but  one 


EARLIER   POEMS 


opinion  expressed,  and  that  in  decided  disap 
probation  of  the  measure.  Such  a  national  ob 
ject  of  interest,  so  endeared  to  our  national 
pride  as  Old  Ironsides  is,  should  never  by  any 
act  of  our  government  cease  to  belong-  to  the 
Navy,  so  long1  as  our  country  is  to  be  found 
upon  the  map  of  nations.  In  England  it  was 
lately  determined  by  the  Admiralty  to  cut  the 
Victory,  a  one-hundred  gun  ship  (which  it  will 
be  recollected  bore  the  flag-  of  Lord  Nelson 
at  the  battle  of  Trafalg-ar),  down  to  a  seventy- 
four,  but  so  loud  were  the  lamentations  of  the 
people  upon  the  proposed  measure  that  the  in 
tention  was  abandoned.  We  confidently  anti 
cipate  that  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  will  in 
like  manner  consult  the  general  wish  in  regard 
to  the  Constitution,  and  either  let  her  remain 
in  ordinary  or  rebuild  her  whenever  the  public 
service  may  require."  —  New  York  Journal  of 
Commerce. 

The  poem  was  an  impromptu  outburst  of 
feeling  and  was  published  on  the  next  day  but 
one  after  reading  the  above  paragraph.  [When 
Poetry:  a  Metrical  Essay  was  published  this 
poem  was  introduced  as  an  interlude  at  the  close 
of  the  second  section.] 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky  ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar  ;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave  ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave  ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 

THE    LAST    LEAF 

The  poem  was  suggested  by  the  sight  of  a 
figure  well  known  to  Bostonians  [in  1831  or 


1832],  that  of  Major  Thomas  Melville,  "  the 
last  of  the  cocked  hats,"  as  he  was  sometimes 
called.  The  Major  had  been  a  personable 
young  man,  very  evidently,  and  retained  evi 
dence  of  it  in 

"  The  monumental  pomp  of  age,"  - 
which  had  something  imposing  and  something 
odd  about  it  for  youthful  eyes  like  mine.  He 
was  often  pointed  at  as  one  of  the  "  Indians  ' ' 
of  the  famous  "  Boston  Tea-Party"  of  1774. 
His  aspect  among  the  crowds  of  a  later  gen 
eration  reminded  me  of  a  withered  leaf  which 
has  held  to  its  stem  through  the  storms  of 
autumn  and  winter,  and  finds  itself  still  cling 
ing  to  its  bough  while  the  new  growths  of 
spring  are  bursting  their  buds  and  spreading 
their  foliage  all  around  it.  I  make  this  expla 
nation  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  have  been 
puzzled  by  the  lines, 

"  The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 
In  the  spring." 

The  way  in  which  it  came  to  be  written  in 
a  somewhat  singular  measure  was  this.  I  had 
become  a  little  known  as  a  versifier,  and  I 
thought  that  one  or  two  other  young  writers 
were  following  my  efforts  with  imitations,  not 
meant  as  parodies  and  hardly  to  be  considered 
improvements  on  their  models.  I  determined 
to  write  in  a  measure  which  would  at  once  be 
tray  any  copyist.  So  far  as  it  was  suggested 
by  any  previous  poem,  the  echo  must  have 
come  from  Campbell's  "  Battle  of  the  Baltic," 
with  its  short  terminal  lines,  such  as  the  last 
of  these  two, 

"  By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore.  " 

But  I  do  not  remember  any  poem  in  the  same 
measure,  except  such  as  have  been  written 
since  its  publication. 

The  poem  as  first  written  had  one  of  those 
false  rhymes  which  produce  a  shudder  in  all 
educated  persons,  even  in  the  poems  of  Keats 
and  others  who  ought  to  have  known  better 
than  to  admit  them. 

The  guilty  verse  ran  thus  :  — 

"  But  now  lie  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

So  forlorn, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

'  They  are  gone  '  !  " 

A  little  more  experience,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
sneer  of  an  American  critic  in  an  English  peri 
odical,  showed  me  that  this  would  never  do. 
Here  was  what  is  called  a  "  cockney  rhyme,"  — 
one  in  which  the  sound  of  the  letter  r  is  neg 
lected  —  maltreated  as  the  letter  h  is  insulted 
by  the  average  Briton  by  leaving  it  out  every 
where  except  where  it  should  be  silent.  Such 
an  ill-mated  pair  as  "  forlorn  "  and  "  gone  " 


THE   CAMBRIDGE   CHURCHYARD 


could  not  possibly  pass  current  in  good  rhyming- 
society.  .But  what  to  do  about  it  was  the 
question.  I  mnat  keep 

' '  They  are  gone  !  ' ' 

and  I  could  not  think  of  any  rhyme  which  I 
could  work  in  satisfactorily.  In  this  perplex 
ity  my  friend.  Mrs.  Folsom,  wife  of  that  excel 
lent  scholar,  Mr.  Charles  Folsom.  then  and  for 
a  long  time  the  unsparing  and  infallible  cor 
rector  of  the  press  at  Cambridge,  suggested 
the  line, 


which  I  thankfully  adopted  and  have   always 
retained. 

Good  Abraham  Lincoln  had  a  great  liking 
for  the  poem,  and  repeated  it  from  memory  to 
Governor  Andrew,  as  the  Governor  himself  told 
me.  I  have  a  copy  of  it  made  by  the  hand  of 
Edgar  Allan  Foe. 

[When  this  poem  was  issued  with  an  accom 
paniment  of  illustration  and  decoration  in  1804, 
Dr.  Holmes  wrote  to  his  publishers  :  — 

"I  have  read  the  proof  you  sent  me  and  find 
nothing  in  it  which  I  feel  called  upon  to  alter 
or  explain. 

"  I  have  lasted  long  enough  to  serve  as  an 
illustration  of  my  own  poem.  I  am  one  of  the 
very  last  of  the  leaves  which  still  cling'  to 
the  bough  of  life  that  budded  in  the  spring  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  The  days  of  my  years 
are  threescore  and  twenty,  and  I  am  almost 
half  way  up  the  steep  incline  which  leads  me 
toward  the  base  of  the  new  century  so  near  to 
which  I  have  already  climbed. 

"  I  am  pleased  to  find  that  this  poem,  carry 
ing  with  it  the  marks  of  having  been  written 
in  the  jocund  morning  of  life,  is  still  read  and 
cared  for.  It  was  with  a  smile  on  my  lips  that 
I  wrote  it ;  I  cannot  read  it  without  a  sigh 
of  tender  remembrance.  I  hope  it  will  not 
sadden  my  older  readers,  while  it  may  amuse 
some  of  the  younger  ones  to  whom  its  experi 
ences  are  as  yet  only  floating  fancies.''] 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  lie  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  priming-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Xot  a  better  man!  was  found 
By  the  Crier' on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 


But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  lie  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  lie  said, 

"  They  are  gone.  " 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names!  he  loved  to  hear^ 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  lias  said  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long-  ago  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow; 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  restsj[upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here  ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer  ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  clino-. 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD 

[This  poem  was  included  as  an  interlude  at 
the  close  of  the  first  section  in  Poetry  :  a  Metri 
cal  Essay,  when  that  was  published  in  book 
form.] 

OUR  ancient  church  !  its  lowly  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadowed  when  the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  tire  ; 
It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eve 


EARLIER   POEMS 


Long  ere  the  glittering  vane, 
High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky, 
Has  faded  o'er  the  plain. 

Like  Sentinel  and  Nun,  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green  ; 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between  ; 
And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near, 

Their  music's  mingling  waves, 
They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennoned  spear 

Leans  on  the  narrow  graves. 

The  stranger  parts  the  flaunting  weeds, 

Whose  seeds  the  winds  have  strown 
So  thick,  beneath  the  line  he  reads, 

They  shade  the  sculptured  stone; 
The  child  unveils  his  clustered  brow, 

And  ponders  for  a  while 
The  graven  willow's  pendent  bough, 

Or  rudest  cherub's  smile. 

But  what  to  them  the  dirge,  the  knell  ? 

These  were  the  mourner's  share,  — 
The  sullen  clang,  whose  heavy  swell 

Throbbed  through  the  beating  air  ; 
The  rattling  cord,  the  rolling  stone, 

The  shelving  sand  that  slid, 
And,  far  beneath,  with  hollow  tone 

Rung  on  the  coffin's  lid. 

The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and 
green, 

Then  slowly  disappears  ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  gray  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  date  and  years  ; 
But,  long  before  the  once-loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  the  silent  dust  may  claim, 

That  pressed  the  breathing  clay. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 

See  where  our  sires  laid  down 
Their  smiling  babes,  their  cherished  brides, 

The  patriarchs  of  the  town  ; 
Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love  ? 

A  sigh  for  transient  power  ? 
All  that  a  century  left  above, 

Go,  read  it  in  an  hour  ! 

The  Indian's  shaft,  the  Briton's  ball, 

The  sabre's  thirsting  edge, 
The  hot  shell,  shattering  in  its  fall, 

The  bayonet's  rending  wedge,  — 
Here  scattered  death  ;  yet,  seek  the  spot, 


No  trace  thine  eye  can  see, 
No  altar,  —  and  they  need  it  not 
Who  leave  their  children  free  ! 

Look  where  the  turbid  rain-drops  stand 

In  many  a  chiselled  square  ; 
The  knightly  crest,  the  shield,  the  brand 

Of  honored  names  were  there  ;  — 
Alas  !  for  every  tear  is  dried 

Those  blazoned  tablets  knew, 
Save  when  the  icy  marble's  side 

Drips  with  the  evening  dew. 

Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillared  stone, 

The  empty  urn  of  pride  ; 
There  stand  the  Goblet  and  the  Sun,  — 

What  need  of  more  beside  ? 
Where  lives  the  memory  of  the  dead, 

Who  made  their  tomb  a  toy  ? 
Whose  ashes  press  that  nameless  bed  ? 

Go,  ask  the  village  boy  ! 

Lean  o'er  the  slender  western  wall, 

Ye  ever-roaming  girls  ; 
The  breath  that  bids  the  blossom  fall 

May  lift  your  floating  curls, 
To  sweep  the  simple  lines  that  tell 

An  exile's  date  and  doom  ; 
And  sigh,  for  where  his  daughters  dwell, 

They  wreathe  the  stranger's  tomb. 

And  one  amid  these  shades  was  born, 

Beneath  this  turf  who  lies, 
Once  beaming  as  the  summer's  morn, 

That  closed  her  gentle  eyes  ; 
If  sinless  angels  love  as  we, 

Who  stood  thy  grave  beside, 
Three  seraph  welcomes  waited  thee, 

The  daughter,  sister,  bride  ! 

I  wandered  to  thy  buried  mound 

When  earth  was  hid  below 
The  level  of  the  glaring  ground, 

Choked  to  its  gates  with  snow, 
And  when  with  summer's  flowery  waves 

The  lake  of  verdure  rolled, 
As  if  a  Sultan's  white-robed  slaves 

Had  scattered  pearls  and  gold. 

Nay,  the  soft  pinions  of  the  air, 
That  lift  this  trembling  tone, 

Its  breath  of  love  may  almost  bear 
To  kiss  thy  funeral  stone  ; 

And,  now  thy  smiles  have  passed  away, 
For  all  the  joy  they  gave, 


THE    DILEMMA 


May  sweetest  dews  and  wannest  ray 
Lie  on  thine  early  grave  ! 

When  damps  beneath  and  storms  above 

Have  bowed  these  fragile  towers, 
Still  o'er  the  graves  yon  locust  grove 

Shall  swing  its  Orient  flowers  ; 
And  I  would  ask  no  mouldering  bust, 

If  e'er  this  humble  line, 
Which  breathed  a  sigh  o'er  others'  dust, 

Mi<rht  call  a  tear  on  mine. 


TO    AN    INSECT 

The   Katydid  is  "  a  species  of   grasshopper 
found  in  the  United  States,  so  called  from  the    j 
sound  which  it  makes.''     WOKCKSTKK. 

I  used  to  hear  this  insect  in  Providence. 
Rhode  Island,  but  I  do  not  remember  hearing1 
it  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  where  I  passed 
my  boyhood.  It  is  well  known  in  other  towns 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Boston. 

I  LOVK  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 

Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist, 

Thou  pretty  Katydid  ! 
Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks,  — 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they,  - 
Thou  say'st  an  undisputed  thing 

In  such  a  solemn  way. 

Thou  art  a  female,  Katydid  ! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill 
That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes, 

So  petulant  and  shrill  ; 
I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree,  — 
A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids,  — 

Do  Katydids  drink  tea  ? 

Oh,  tell  me  where  did  Katy  live, 

And  what  did  Katy  do  ? 
And  was  she  very  fair  and  young, 

And  yet  so  wicked,  too  ? 
Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man, 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one  ? 
I  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  lias  done. 

Dear  me  !  I  '11  tell  you  all  about 

My  fuss  with  little  Jane, 
And  Ann,  with  whom  I  used  to  walk 

So  often  down  the  lane, 
And  all  that  tore  their  locks  of  black, 


Or  wet  their  eyes  of  blue,  — 
Pray  tell  me,  sweetest  Katydid, 
What  did  poor  Katy  do  ? 

Ah  no  !  the  living  oak  shall  crash, 

That  stood  for  ages  still, 
The  rock  shall  rend  its  mossy  base 

And  thunder  down  the  hill, 
Before  the  little  Katydid 

Shall  add  one  word,  to  tell 
The  mystic  story  of  the  maid 

Whose  name  she  knows  so  well. 

Peace  to  the  ever-murmuring  race  ! 

And  when  the  latest  one 
Shall  fold  in  death  her  feeble  wings 

Beneath  the  autumn  sun, 
Then  shall  she  raise  her  fainting  voice. 

And  lift  her  drooping  lid, 
And  then  the  child  of  future  years 

Shall  hear  what  Katy  did. 


THE    DILEMMA 

Now,  by  the  blessed  Paphian  queen, 
Who  heaves  the  breast  of  sweet  sixteen  ; 
By  every  name  I  cut  on  bark 
Before  my  morning  star  grew  dark  ; 
By  Hymen's  torch,  by  Cupid's  dart, 
By  all  that  thrills  the  beating  heart  ; 
The  bright  blade  eye,  the  melting  blue, 
I  cannot  choose  between  the  two. 

I  had  a  vision  in  my  dreams  ;  — 
I  saw  a  row  of  twenty  beams  ; 
From  every  beam  a  rope  was  hung, 
In  every  rope  a  lover  swung  ; 
I  asked  the  hue  of  every  eve 
That  bade  each  luckless  lover  die  ; 
Ten  shadowy  lips  said,  heavenlv  blue, 
And  ten  accused  the  darker  hue. 

I  asked  a  matron  which  she  deemed 
With  fairest  light  of  beauty  beamed  ; 
She    answered,    some    thought    both    were 

fair,  — 

Give  her  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 
I  might  have  liked  her  judgment  well. 
But,  as  she  spoke,  she  rung  the  bell, 
And  all  her  girls,  nor  small  nor  few, 
Came  marching  in, —  their  eyes  were  blue. 

I  asked  a  maiden  ;  back  she  flung 

The  locks  that  round  her  forehead  hunff, 


s 


EARLIER   POEMS 


And  turned  her  eye,  a  glorious  one, 
Bright  as  a  diamond  in  the  sun, 
On  me,  until  beneath  its  rays 
I  felt  as  if  my  hair  would  blaze  ; 
She  liked  all  eyes  but  eyes  of  green  ; 
She  looked  at  me  ;  what  could  she  mean  ? 

Ah  !  many  lids  Love  lurks  between, 
Nor  heeds  the  coloring  of  his  screen  ; 
And  when  his  random  arrows  fly, 
The  victim  falls,  but  knows  not  why. 
Gaze  not  upon  his  shield  of  jet, 
The  shaft  upon  the  string  is  set  ; 
Look  not  beneath  his  azure  veil, 
Though  every  limb  were  cased  in  mail. 

Well,  both  might  make  a  martyr  break 
The  chain  that  bound  him  to  the  stake  ; 
And  both,  with  but  a  single  ray, 
Can  melt  our  very  hearts  away  ; 
And  both,  when  balanced,  hardly  seem 
To  stir  the  scales,  or  rock  the  beam  ; 
But  that  is  dearest,  all  the  while, 
That  wears  for  us  the  sweetest  smile. 


MY   AUNT 

MY  aunt !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt ! 

Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown  ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone  ; 
I  know  it  hurts  her,  —  though  she  looks 

As  cheerful  as  she  can  ; 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 

For  life  is  but  a  span. 

My  aunt !  my  poor  deluded  aunt ! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray  ; 
Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  spring-like  way  ? 
How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down, 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When  through  a  double  convex  lens 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell  ? 

Her  father  —  grandpapa  !  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles  — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles  ; 
He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school  ; 

'T  was  in  her  thirteenth  June  ; 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 

"  Two  towels  and  a  spoon." 


They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board, 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall  ; 
They  laced  her  up,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small  ; 
They  pinched   her  feet,  they  singed  her 
hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins  ;  — 
Oh,  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back  ; 
(By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might  follow  on  the  track  ;) 
"  Ah  !  "  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
"  What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man  !  " 

Alas  !  nor  chariot,  nor  barouche, 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 

His  all-accomplished  maid. 
For  her  how  happy  had  it  been  ! 

And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one  sad,  ungathered  rose 

Oil  my  ancestral  tree. 


REFLECTIONS  OF  A  PROUD 
PEDESTRIAN 

I  SAW  the  curl  of  his  waving  lash, 
And  the  glance  of  his  knowing  eye, 

And  I  knew  that  he  thought  he  was  cutting 

a  dash, 
As  his  steed  went  thundering  by. 

And  he  may  ride  in  the  rattling  gig, 

Or  flourish  the  Stanhope  gay, 
And  dream  that  he  looks  exceeding  big 

To  the  people  that  walk  in  the  way  ; 

But  he  shall  think,  when  the  night  is  still, 
On  the  stable-boy's  gathering  numbers, 

And  the  ghost  of  many  a  veteran  bill 
Shall  hover  around  his  slumbers  ; 

The  ghastly  dun  shall  worry  his  sleep, 
And  constables  cluster  around  him, 
And   he    shall   creep  from  the  wood-hole 

deep 

Where   their  spectre   eyes   have   found 
him  ! 


EVENING 


Ay  !  gather   your   reins,    and    crack   your 
thong, 

And  Lid  your  steed  go  faster  ; 
He  does  not  know,  as  he  scrambles  along, 

That  he  has  a  fool  for  his  master  ; 

And  hurry  away  on  your  lonely  ride, 
Nor  deign  from  the  mire  to  save  me  ; 

I  will  paddle  it  stoutly  at  your  side 

With  the  tandem  that  nature  jrave  me  ! 


DAILY    TRIALS 

BY    A    SENSITIVE    MAX 

Oir,  there  are  times 

When  all  this  fret  and  tumult  that  we  hear 
Do  seem  more  stale  than  to  the  sexton's 
ear 

His  own  dull  chimes. 

Ding  dong  !  ding  (long  ! 
The  world  is  in  a  simmer  like  a  sea 
Over  a  pent  volcano,  —  woe  is  me 

All  the  day  long  ! 

From  crib  to  shroud  ! 
Nurse  o'er  our  cradles  screameth  lullaby, 
And  friends  in  boots  tramp  round  us  as  we 
die, 

Snuffling  aloud. 

At  morning's  call 
The  small-voiced  pug-dog  welcomes  in  the 

sun, 
And  flea-bit    mongrels,  wakening   one   by 

one, 
Give  answer  all. 

When  evening  dim 

Draws    round    us,    then   the    lonely    cater 
waul, 
Tart  solo,  sour  duet,  and  general  squall.  — 

These  are  our  hymn. 

Women,  with  tongues 
Like  polar  needles,  ever  on  the  jar  ; 
Men,    plugless    word-spouts,    whose    deep 
fountains  are 

Within  their  lungs. 

Children,  with  drums 

Strapped  round  them  by  the  fond  paternal 
ass  ; 


Peripatetics  with  a  blade  of  grass 
Between  their  thumbs. 

Vagrants,  whose  arts 
Have    caged    some    devil    in    their    mad 

machine, 
Which     grinding,    squeaks,     with     hnskv 

groans  between, 
Come  out  by  starts. 

Cockneys  that  kill 
Thin    horses    of    a    Sunday,  —  men,    with 

clams, 
Hoarse  as  young  bisons  roaring  for  their 

dams 
From  hill  to  hill. 

Soldiers,  with  guns, 
Making  a  nuisance  of  the  blessed  air, 
Child-drying  bellman,  children  in  despair, 

Screeching  for  buns. 

Storms,  thunders,  waves  ! 
Howl,  crash,  and  bellow  till    vo    get    \otir 

fill; 
Ye  sometimes  rest  ;  men  never  can  be  still 

But  in  their  graves. 


J1V     A      TAILOR 

DAY  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around 
His  burning  bosom  buttoned  it  with  stars. 
Here  will  1  lav  me  on  the  velvet  grass, 
That  is  like  padding  to  earth's  meagre  ribs, 
And  hold  communion  with  the  things  about 

me. 

Ah  me  !  how  lovely  is  the  golden  braid 
That  binds  the  skirt  of  night's  descending 

robe  ! 
The  thin  leaves,  quivering  on  their  silken 

threads, 

Do  make  a  music  like  to  rustling  satin, 
As  the   light  breezes   smooth   their  downy 

nap. 

Ha  !  what  is  this  that  rises  to  my  touch, 
So  like  a  cushion  ?     Can  it  be  a  cabbage  ? 
It  is,  it  is  that  deeply  injured  flower, 
\Vhich  boys  do  flout  us  with  ;  —  but  yet  I 

love  thee, 
Thou  giant  rose,  wrapped  in  a  green  sur- 

tout. 


EARLIER   POEMS 


Doubtless   in   Eden   thou   didst   blush    as 

bright 
As    these,  thy   puny   brethren  ;    and    thy 

breath 

Sweetened  the  fragrance  of  her  spicy  air  ; 
But  now  thou  seemestlike  a  bankrupt  beau, 
Stripped  of  his  gaudy  hues  and  essences, 
And  growing  portly  in  his  sober  garments. 

Is  that  a  swan  that  rides  upon  the  water  ? 
Oh  no,  it  is  that  other  gentle  bird, 
"Which  is  the  patron  of  our  noble  calling. 
I  well  remember,  in  my  early  years, 
When  these  young  hands  first  closed  upon 

a  goose  ; 

I  have  a  scar  upon  my  thimble  finger, 
Which  chronicles  the  hour  of  young  ambi 
tion. 

My  father  was  a  tailor,  and  his  father, 
And  my  sire's  grandsire,  all  of  them  were 

tailors  ; 
They  had  an    ancient   goose,  —  it  was  an 

heirloom 

From  some  remoter  tailor  of  our  race. 
It  happened  I  did  see  it  on  a  time 
When  none  was  near,  and  I  did  deal  with  it, 
And  it  did  burn  me,  —  oh,  most  fearfully  ! 

It  is  a  joy  to  straighten  out  one's  limbs, 
And  leap  elastic  from  the  level  counter, 
Leaving  the  petty  grievances  of  earth, 
The   breaking  thread,  the  din  of  clashing 

shears, 
And  all  the  needles    that   do   wound    the 

spirit, 

For  such  a  pensive  hour  of  soothing  silence. 
Kind  Nature,  shuffling  in  her  loose  undress, 
Lays  bare  her  shady  bosom  ;  —  I  can  feel 
With    all    around   me  ;  —  I   can   hail  the 

flowers 
That  sprig  earth's  mantle,  —  and  yon  quiet 

bird, 

That  rides  the  stream,  is  to  me  as  a  brother. 
The  vulgar  know  not  all  the  hidden  pockets, 
Where  Nature  stows  away  her  loveliness. 
But  this  unnatural  posture  of  the  legs 
Cramps  my  extended  calves,  and  I  must  go 
Where  I  can  coil  them  in  their  wonted  fash- 


THE    DORCHESTER   GIANT 

The  "  pudding-stone  "  is  a  remarkable  con 
glomerate  found  very  abundantly  in  the  towns 
mentioned,  all  of  which  are  in  the  neighbor 


hood  of  Boston.  We  used  in  those  primitive 
days  to  ask  friends  to  ride  with  us  when  we 
meant  to  take  them  to  drive  with  us. 

[It  is  interesting  to  see  how  the  same  sub 
ject  presented  itself  to  the  poet  in  different 
moods.  There  is  a  passage  in  The  Professor  at 
the  Breakfast  -Table  which  begins,  "  1  wonder 
whether  the  boys  who  live  in  Roxbury  and 
Dorchester  are  ever  moved  to  tears  or  filled 
with  silent  awe  as  they  look  upon  the  rocks  and 
fragments  of  '  pudding-stone  '  abounding  in 
those  localities."  Then  follows  a  half  page  of 
eloquent  speculation  on  the  pudding-stone.  ] 

THERE  was  a  giant  in  time  of  old, 

A  mighty  one  was  he  ; 
He  had  a  wife,  but  she  was  a  scold, 
So  he  kept  her  shut  in  his  mammoth  fold; 

And  he  had  children  three. 

It  happened  to  be  an  election  day, 

And  the  giants  were  choosing  a  king  ; 
The  people  were  not  democrats  then, 
They  did  not  talk  of  the  rights  of  men, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Then  the  giant  took  his  children  three, 
And  fastened  them  in  the  pen  ; 

The  children  roared  :  quoth  the  giant,  "  Be 
still  !  " 

And  Dorchester  Heights  and  Milton  Hill 
Rolled  back  the  sound  again. 

Then  he  brought  them  a  pudding  stuffed 

with  plums, 

As  big  as  the  State-House  dome  ; 
Quoth  he,  "  There  's  something  for  you  to 

eat  ; 
So   stop  your   mouths   with   your    'lection 

treat, 
And  wait  till  your  dad  comes  home." 

So  the  giant  pulled  him  a  chestnut  stout, 

And  whittled  the  boughs  away  ; 
The  boys  and  their  mother  set  up  a  shout, 
Said  he,  "  You  're  in,  and  you  can't  get  out, 
Bellow  as  loud  as  you  may." 

Off  he  went,  and  he  growled  a  tune 

As  he  strode  the  fields  along  ; 
'T  is  said  a  buffalo  fainted  away, 
And  fell  as  cold  as  a  lump  of  clay, 

When  he  heard  the  giant's  song. 

But  whether  the  story  's  true  or  not, 
It  is  n't  for  me  to  show  ; 


THE   COMET 


I   ! 


There  's  many  a  thing  that 's  twice  as  queer 
In  somebody's  lectures  that  we  hear, 
And  those  are  true,  you  know. 


What  are  those  lone  ones  doing  now, 
The  wife  and  the  children  sad  ? 

Oh,  they  are  in  a  terrible  rout, 

Screaming,    and    throwing    their  pudding 

about, 
Acting  as  they  were  mad. 

They  flung  it  over  to  Iloxbury  hills, 

They  flung  it  over  the  plain, 
And  all  over  Milton  and  Dorchester  too 
Great  lumps  of  pudding  the  giants  threw  ; 

They  tumbled  as  thick  as  rain. 


Giant  and  mammoth  have  passed  away, 

For  ages  have  floated  by  ; 
The  suet  is  hard  as  a  marrow-bone, 
And  every  plum  is  turned  to  a  stone, 

But  there  the  puddings  lie. 

And  if,  some  pleasant  afternoon, 

You  '11  ask  me  out  to  ride. 
The  whole  of  the  story  I  will  tell, 
And  you  shall  see  where  the  puddings  fell, 

And  pay  for  the  punch  beside. 


TO     THE 


PORTRAIT 
LADY" 


IX    TIIK    ATHKN.KU.M    (iALLKRY 

[The  companion  piece,  To  the  Portrait  of  "A 
(jfentlemcin  ''  in  the  Athentvutn  (xdllert/,  was  rele 
gated  by  the  author  to  TYws  from  the  Oldest 
Portfolio,  when  he  divided  his  first  volume  as 
stated  in  the  introductory  note.] 

WELL,  Miss,  I  wonder  where  you  live, 

I  wonder  what 's  your  name, 
I  wonder  how  you  came  to  be 

In  such  a  stylish  frame  ; 
Perhaps  you  were  a  favorite  child, 

Perhaps  an  only  one  ; 
Perhaps  your  friends  were  not  aware 

You  had  your  portrait  done  ! 

Yet  you  must  be  a  harmless  soul  ; 
I  cannot  think  that  JSin 


Would  care  to  throw  his  loaded  dice, 
A\7ith  such  a  stake  to  win  ; 

I  cannot  think  you  would  provoke 
The  poet's  wicked  pen, 

Or  make  young  women  bite  their  lips, 
Or  ruin  tine  young  men. 

Pray,  did  you  ever  hear,  my  love, 

Of  boys  that  go  about, 
Who,  for  a  very  trifling  sum, 

Will  snip  one's  picture  out  ? 
I  'in  not  averse  to  red  and  white, 

But  all  things  have  their  place, 
I  think  a  profile  cut  in  black 

Would  suit  your  style  of  face  ! 

I  love  sweet  features  ;  I  will  own 

That  I  should  like  myself 
To  see  my  portrait  on  a  wall, 

Or  bust  upon  a  shelf  ; 
But  nature  sometimes  makes  one  up 

Of  such  sad  odds  and  ends, 
It  really  might  be  quite  as  well 

Hushed  up  among  one's  friends  ! 


THE    COMET 

THE  Comet  !     lie  is  on  his  way, 

And  singing  as  he  flies  ; 
The  whizzing  planets  shrink  before 

The  spectre  of  the  skies  ; 
Ah  !  well  mav  regal  orbs  burn  blue, 

And  satellites  turn  pale, 
Ten  million  cubic  miles  of  head, 

Ten  billion  leagues  of  tail  ! 

On,  on  by  whistling  spheres  of  light 

He  flashes  and  he  flames  ; 
He  turns  not  to  the  left  nor  right, 

He  asks  them  not  their  names  ; 
One  spurn  from  his  demoniac  heel,  — 

Away,  away  they  fly, 
Where  darkness  might  be  bottled  up 

And  sold  for  "  Tyrian  dve." 

And  what  would  happen  to  the  land, 

And  how  would  look  the  sea, 
If  in  the  bearded  devil's  path 

Our  earth  should  chance  to  be  ? 
Full  hot  and  high  the  sea  would  boil, 

Full  red  the  forests  gleam  ; 
Methought  I  saw  and  heard  it  all 

In  a  dyspeptic  dream  ! 


EARLIER   POEMS 


I  saw  a  tutor  take  his  tube 

The  Comet's  course  to  spy  ; 
I  heard  a  scream,  —  the  gathered  rays 

Had  stewed  the  tutor's  eye  ; 
I  saw  a  fort,  —  the  soldiers  all 

Were  armed  with  goggles  green  ; 
Pop    cracked    the    guns !     whiz    flew   the 
balls  ! 

Bang  went  the  magazine  ! 

I  saw  a  poet  dip  a  scroll 

Each  moment  in  a  tub, 
I  read  upon  the  warping  back, 

"The  Dream  of  Beelzebub  ;  " 
He  could  not  see  his  verses  burn, 

Although  his  brain  was  fried, 
And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 

To  wet  them  as  they  dried. 

I  saw  the  scalding  pitch  roll  down 

The  crackling,  sweating  pines, 
And  streams  of  smoke,  like  water-spouts, 

Burst  through  the  rumbling  mines  ; 
I  asked  the  firemen  why  they  made 

Such  noise  about  the  town  ; 
They  answered  not,  —  but  all  the  while 

The  brakes  went  up  and  down. 

I  saw  a  roasting  pullet  sit 

Upon  a  baking  egg  ; 
I  saw  a  cripple  scorch  his  hand 

Extinguishing  his  leg  ; 
I  saw  nine  geese  upon  the  wing 

Towards  the  frozen  pole, 
And  every  mother's  gosling  fell 

Crisped  to  a  crackling  coal. 

I  saw  the  ox  that  browsed  the  grass 

Writhe  in  the  blistering  rays, 
The  herbage  in  his  shrinking  jaws 

Was  all  a  fiery  blaze  ; 
I  saw  huge  fishes,  boiled  to  rags, 

Bob  through  the  bubbling  brine  ; 
And  thoughts  of  supper  crossed  my  soul  ; 

I  had  been  rash  at  mine. 

Strange  sights  !  strange  sounds  !  O  fearful 
dream  ! 

Its  memory  haunts  me  still, 
The  steaming  sea,  the  crimson  glare, 

That  wreathed  each  wooded  hill  ; 
Stranger  !  if  through  thy  reeling  brain 

Such  midnight  visions  sweep, 
Spare,  spare,  oh,  spare  thine  evening  meal, 

And  sweet  shall  be  thy  sleep  ! 


THE    MUSIC-GRINDERS 

THERE  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take 
One's  money  from  his  purse, 

And  very  hard  it  is  to  tell 

Which  of  the  three  is  worse  ; 

But  all  of  them  are  bad  enough 
To  make  a  body  curse. 

You  're  riding  out  some  pleasant  day, 
And  counting  up  your  gains  ; 

A  fellow  jumps  from  out  a  bush, 
And  takes  your  horse's  reins, 

Another  hints  some  words  about 
A  bullet  in  your  brains. 

It 's  hard  to  meet  such  pressing  friends 

In  such  a  lonely  spot  ; 
It 's  very  hard  to  lose  your  cash, 

But  harder  to  be  shot  ; 
And  so  you  take  your  wallet  out, 

Though  you  would  rather  not. 

Perhaps  you  're  going  out  to  dine,  — 

Some  odious  creature  begs 
You  '11  hear  about  the  cannon-ball 

That  carried  off  his  pegs, 
And  says  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 

For  men  to  lose  their  legs. 

He  tells  you  of  his  starving  wife, 

His  children  to  be  fed, 
Poor  little,  lovely  innocents, 

All  clamorous  for  bread,  — 
And  so  you  kindly  help  to  put 

A  bachelor  to  bed. 

You  're  sitting  on  your  window-seat, 

Beneath  a  cloudless  moon  ; 
You  hear  a  sound,  that  seems  to  wear 

The  semblance  of  a  tune, 
As  if  a  broken  fife  should  strive 

To  drown  a  cracked  bassoon. 

And  nearer,  nearer  still,  the  tide 

Of  music  seems  to  come, 
There  's  something  like  a  human  voice, 

And  something  like  a  drum  ; 
You  sit  in  speechless  agony, 

Until  your  ear  is  numb. 

Poor  "  home,  sweet  home  "  should  seem  to 

be 
A  very  dismal  place  ; 


THE   SEPTEMBER  GALE 


Your  "  auld  acquaintance  "  all  at  once 

Is  altered  in  the  face  ; 

Their   discords    sting   through   Burns  and 
Moore, 

Like  hedgehogs  dressed  in  lace. 

You  think  they  are  crusaders,  sent 

From  some  infernal  clinic, 
To  pluck  the  eyes  of  Sentiment, 

And  dock  the  tail  of  Rhyme, 
To  crack  the  voice  of  Melody, 

And  break  the  legs  of  Time. 

But  hark!  the  air  again  is  still, 

The  music  all  is  ground, 
And  silence,  like  a  poultice,  comes 

To  heal  the  blows  of  sound  ; 
It  cannot  be,  —  it  is,  —  it  is,  — 

A  hat  is  going  round  ! 

Xo  !  Pay  the  dentist  when  he  leaves 

A  fracture  in  your  jaw, 
And  pay  the  owner  of  the  bear 

That  stunned  you  with  his  paw, 
And  buy  the  lobster  that  has  had 

Your  knuckles  in  his  claw  ; 

But  if  you  are  a  portly  man, 

Put  on  your  fiercest  frown, 
And  talk  about  a  constable 

To  turn  them  out  of  town  ; 
Then  close  your  sentence  with  an  oath, 

And  shut  the  window  down  ! 

And  if  you  are  a  slender  man, 

Not  big  enough  for  that. 
Or,  if  you  cannot  make  a  speech, 

Because  von  are  a  tiat, 
Go  very  quietly  and  drop 

A  button  in  the  hat  ! 


THE    TREADMILL    SOXr, 

TIIK  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky, 

The  earth  rolls  on  below, 
And  we  can  feel  the  rattling  wheel 

Revolving  as  we  go. 
Then  tread  away,  my  gallant  boys, 

And  make  the  axle  fly  ; 
Why  should  not  wheels  go  round  about, 

Like  planets  in  the  sky  ? 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  my  duck-legged  man 
And  stir  your  solid  pegs  ! 


Arouse,  arouse,  my  gawky  friend, 
And  shake  your  spider  legs  ; 

What    though    you  're    awkward    at    the, 

trade, 
There  's  time  enough  to  learn,  — 

So  lean  upon  the  rail,  my  lad, 
And  take  another  turn. 

They  Ve  built  us  up  a  noble  wall, 

To  keep  the  vulgar  out  ; 
We  've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 

But  just  to  walk  about  ; 
So  faster,  now,  you  middle  men, 

And  try  to  beat  the  ends,  — 
It 's  pleasant  work  to  ramble  round 

Among  one's  honest  friends. 

Here,  tread  upon  the  long  man's  toes, 

He  sha'n't  be  lazy  here,  — 
And  punch  the  little  fellow's  ribs, 

And  tweak  that  lubber's  ear,  — 
He  's    lost    them     both,  —  don't    pull    his 
hair, 

Because  lie  wears  a  scratch, 
But  poke  him  in  the  further  eye, 

That  is  n't  in  the  patch. 

Hark  !   fellows,  there  's  the  supper-bell, 

And  so  our  work  is  done  ; 
It's  pretty  sport,  —  suppose  we  take 

A  round  or  two  for  fun  ! 
If  ever  they  should  turn  me  out, 

When  I  have  better  grown, 
Now  hang  me,  but  I  mean  to  have 

A  treadmill  of  mv  own  ! 


Till-:    SEPTEMBER    (iALK 

This  tremendous  hurricane  occurred  OH  the 
23d  of  September,  l*l~>.  I  remember  it.  well, 
bein<>'  then  seven  years  old.  A  full  account  of 
it  was  published,  I  think,  in  the  records  of  the 
American  Academy  of  Arts  and  Sciences. 
Sonic  of  my  recollections  are  <;-iven  in  T/ic 
Seasons,  an  article;  to  be  found  in  a  book  of 
mine  entitled  Pmjcx  from  (in  Old  \rolume  of 
Life. 

I  'M  not  a  chicken  ;  I  have  seen 

Full  many  a  chill  September, 
And  though  I  was  a  youngster  then, 

That  gale  I  well  remember  ; 
The  day  before,  my  kite-string  snapped, 

And  I,  my  kite  pursuing, 
The  wind  whisked  off  mv  palm-leaf  hat  : 

For  me  two  storms  were  brewing  ! 


EARLIER   POEMS 


It  came  as  quarrels  sometimes  do, 

When  married  folks  get  clashing  ; 
There  was  a  heavy  sigh  or  two, 

Before  the  fire  was  Flashing,  — 
A  little  stir  among  the  clouds, 

Before  they  rent  asunder,  — 
A  little  rocking  of  the  trees, 

And  then  came  on  the  thunder. 

Lord  !  how  the  ponds  and  rivers  boiled  ! 

They  seemed  like  bursting  craters  ! 
And  oaks  lay  scattered  on  the  ground 

As  if  they  were  p'taters  ; 
And  all  above  was  in  a  howl, 

And  all  below  a  clatter,  — 
The  earth  was  like  a  frying-pan, 

Or  some  such  hissing  matter. 

It  chanced  to  be  our  washing-day, 

And  all  our  things  were  drying  ; 
The    storm     came    roaring    through    the 
lines, 

And  set  them  all  a  flying  ; 
I  saw  the  shirts  and  petticoats 

Go  riding  off  like  witches  ; 
I  lost,  ah  !  bitterly  I  wept,  — 

I  lost  my  Sunday  breeches  ! 

I  saw  them  straddling  through  the  air, 

Alas  !  too  late  to  win  them  ; 
I  saw  them  chase  the  clouds,  as  if 

The  devil  had  been  in  them  ; 
They  were  my  darlings  and  my  pride, 

My  boyhood's  only  riches,  — 
"Farewell,  farewell,"  I  faintly  cried,— 

"  My  breeches  !    O  my  breeches  !  " 

That  night  I  saw  them  in  my  dreams, 

How     changed     from     what     I     knew 

them  ! 
The  dews  had  steeped  their  faded  threads, 

The  winds  had  whistled  through  them  ! 
I  saw  the  wide  and  ghastly  rents 

Where  demon  claws  had  torn  them  ; 
A  hole  was  in  their  amplest  part, 

As  if  an  imp  had  worn  them. 

I  have  had  many  happy  years, 

And  tailors  kind  and  clever, 
But  those  young  pantaloons  have  gone 

Forever  and  forever  ! 
And  not  till  fate  has  cut  the  last 

Of  all  my  earthly  stitches, 
This  aching  heart  shall  cease  to  mourn 

My  loved,  my  long-lost  breeches  ! 


THE    HEIGHT    OF   THE   RIDICU 
LOUS 

I  WROTE  some  lines  once  on  a  time 
In  wondrous  merry  mood, 

And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 
They  were  exceeding  good. 

They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 
I  laughed  as  I  would  die  ; 

Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 
A  sober  man  am  I. 

I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came  ; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me, 

He  of  the  mighty  limb. 

"  These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaimed, 

And,  in  my  humorous  way, 
I  added,  (as  a  trifling  jest,) 

"  There  '11  be  the  devil  to  pay." 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched, 
And  saw  him  peep  within  ; 

At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 
Was  all  upon  the  grin. 

He  read  the  next  ;  the  grin  grew  broad, 
And  shot  from  ear  to  ear  ; 

He  read  the  third  ;  a  chuckling  noise 
I  now  began  to  hear. 

The  fourth  ;  he  broke  into  a  roar  ; 

The  fifth  ;  his  waistband  split  ; 
The  sixth  ;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 
I  watched  that  wretched  man, 

And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 
As  funny  as  I  can. 

THE    LAST    READER 

I  SOMETIMES  sit  beneath  a  tree 

And  read  my  own  sweet  songs  ; 

Though  naught  they  may  to  others  be, 
Each  humble  line  prolongs 

A  tone  that  might  have  passed  away, 

But  for  that  scarce  remembered  lay. 

I  keep  them  like  a  lock  or  leaf 

That  some  dear  girl  has  given  ; 

Frail  record  of  an  hour,  as  brief 
As  sunset  clouds  in  heaven, 


POETRY 


But  spreading  purple  twilight  still 
High  over  memory's  shadowed  hill. 

They  lie  upon  my  pathway  bleak, 

Those  flowers  that  once  ran  wild, 

As  on  a  father's  careworn  cheek 
The  ringlets  of  his  child  ; 

The  golden  mingling  with  the  gray, 

And  stealing  half  its  snows  away. 

What  care  I  though  the  dust  is  spread 
Around  these  yellow  leaves, 

Or  o'er  them  his  sarcastic  thread 
Oblivion's  insect  weaves  ? 

Though  weeds  are  tangled  on  the  stream. 

It  still  reflects  my  morning's  beam. 

And  therefore  love  I  such  as  smile 

On  these  neglected  songs, 
Xor  deem  that  flattery's  needless  wile 

My  opening  bosom  wrongs  ; 
For  who  would  trample,  at  mv  side. 
A  few  pale  buds,  my  garden's  pride  ? 

It  may  be  that  my  scanty  ore 

Long  years  have  washed  awav, 

And  where  were  golden  sands  before 
Is  naught  but  common  clay  ; 

Still  something  sparkles  in  the  sun 

For  memorv  to  look  back  upon. 

And  when  my  name  no  more  is  heard, 

My  lyre  no  more  is  known. 
Still  let  me,  like  a  winter's  bird, 

In  silence  and  alone, 
Fold  over  them  the  weary  wing- 
Once  flashing  through  the  dews  of  spring. 

Yes,  let  my  fancy  fondly  wrap 

My  youth  in  its  decline, 
And  riot  in  the  rosy  lap 

Of  thoughts  that  once  were  mine, 
And  give  the  worm  my  little  store 
When  the  last  reader  reads  no  more  ! 

POETRY 

A  METRICAL  ESSAY,  READ  15EEORE  THE 
PHI  15ETA  KAPPA  SOCIETY,  HARVARD 
UNIVERSITY,  AUGUST,  1836 

TO  ri!ARU:.S  WKXTWORTH  Ul'HAM.  THE  FOL 
LOWING  METRICAL  ESSAY  IS  AFFECTIONATE LV 


This   Academic    Poem   presents   the  simple 
and  partial  views  of  a  young-  person  trained 


after  the  schools  of  classical  English  verse  as 
represented  by  Pope,  Goldsmith,  and  Camp 
bell,  with  whose  lines  his  memory  \vus  early 
stocked.  It  will  be  observed  that  it  deals 
chiefly  with  the  constructive  side  oi'  the  poet's 
function.  That  whieh  makes  him  a  poet  is 
not  the  power  of  writing  melodious  rhymes,  it 
is  not  the  possession  of  ordinary  human  sensi 
bilities  nor  even  of  both  these  qualities  in  con 
nection  with  each  other.  1  .should  rather  say, 
if  1  were  now  called  upon  to  define  it.  it  is  the 
power  of  transfiguring'  the  experiences  and 
shows  of  life  into  an  aspect  which  comes  from 
his  imagination  and  kindles  that  of  others. 
Emotion  is  its  stimulus  and  language  furnishes 
its  expression;  but  these  are  not  all,  as  some 
might  infer  was  the  doctrine  of  the  poem 
before  the  reader. 

A  common  mistake  made  by  young-  persons 
who  suppose  themselves  to  have  the  poetical 
gift  is  that  their  own  spiritual  exaltation  finds 
a  true  expression  in  the  conventional  phrases 
which  are  borrowed  from  the  voices  of  the 
singers  whose  inspiration  they  think  they 
share. 

Looking  at  this  poem  as  an  expression  of 
some  aspects  of  the  r/rs  j>n«t>c/i.  with  some 
passages  which  1  can  read  even  at  this  mature 
period  of  life  without  blushing  for  them,  it 
may  stand  as  the  most  serious  representation 
of  my  early  efforts.  Intended  as  it  was  for 
public  delivery,  many  of  its  paragraphs  may 
betray  the  fact  by  their  somewhat  rhetorical 
and  sonorous  character. 

SCKNES  of  my  youth  !  awake  its  slumber 
ing  tire  ! 

Ye  winds  of  Memory,  sweep  the  silent  lyre  ! 

Ray  of  the  past,  if  yet  tliou  canst  appear, 

l>reak  through  the  clouds  of  Fancv's  wan 
ing  year  ; 

Chase  from  her  breast  the  thin  autumnal 
snow, 

If  leaf  or  blossom  still  is  fresh  below  ! 

Long  have  I  wandered  ;  the  returning 
"tide 

Brought  back  an  exile  to  his  cradle's  side  ; 

And  as  mv  bark  her  time-worn  ila()-  un 
rolled. 

To  greet  the  land-breeze  with  its  faded 
fold, 

So.  in  remembrance  of  my  boyhood's  time, 

I  lift  these  ensigns  of  neglected  rhyme  ; 

Oh,  more  than  blest,  that,  all  my  wander 
ings  through, 

Mv  anchor  falls  where  first  my  pennons 
flew  ! 


i6 


EARLIER   POEMS 


The    morning     light,     which    rains    its 

quivering  beams 
Wide  o'er  the  plains,  the  summits,  and  the 

streams, 

In  one  broad  blaze  expands  its  golden  glow 
On  all  that  answers  to  its  glance  below  ; 
Yet,  changed  on  earth,  each  far  reflected 

ray 
Braids  with  fresh  hues  the  shining  brow  of 

day; 
Now,  clothed  in   blushes   by  the   painted 

flowers, 
Tracks  on  their  cheeks  the  rosy-fingered 

hours  ; 
Now,  lost  in  shades,  whose  dark  entangled 

leaves 
Drip  at  the  noontide  from  their   pendent 

eaves, 

Fades  into  gloom,  or  gleams  in  light  again 
From  every  dew-drop  on  the  jewelled  plain. 

We,  like  the  leaf,  the  summit,  or  the 

wave, 

Reflect  the  light  our  common  nature  gave, 
But  every  sunbeam,  falling  from  her  throne, 
Wears  on  our  hearts  some  coloring  of  our 

own  : 

Chilled  in  the  slave,  and  burning  in  the  free, 
Like  the  sealed  cavern  by  the  sparkling- 
sea  ; 

Lost,  like  the  lightning  in  the  sullen  clod, 
Or   shedding  radiance,  like  the  smiles  of 

God; 

Pure,  pale  in  Virtue,  as  the  star  above, 
Or  quivering  roseate  on  the  leaves  of  Love  ; 
Glaring  like  noontide,  where  it  glows  upon 
Ambition's    sands,  —  the    desert    in    the 

sun,  — 

Or  soft  suffusing  o'er  the  varied  scene 
Life's    common    coloring,  —  intellectual 
green. 

Thus    Heaven,    repeating    its    material 

plan, 

Arched  over  all  the  rainbow  mind  of  man  ; 
But  he  who,  blind  to  universal  laws, 
Sees    but    effects,    unconscious    of    their 

cause,  — 

Believes  each  image  in  itself  is  bright, 
Not  robed  in  drapery  of  reflected  light,  — 
Is  like  the  rustic  who,  amidst  his  toil, 
Has  found  some  crystal  in  his  meagre  soil, 
And,  lost  in  rapture,  thinks  for  him  alone 
Earth  worked  her  wonders  on  the  spark 
ling  stone, 


Nor  dreams  that  Nature,  with  as  nice  a  line, 
Carved  countless  angles  through  the  bound 
less  mine. 

Thus  err  the  many,  who,  entranced  to  find 
Unwonted  lustre  in  some  clearer  mind, 
Believe  that  Genius  sets  the  laws  at  naught 
Which   chain   the   pinions  of   our    wildest 

thought ; 

Untaught  to  measure,  with  the  eye  of  art, 
The  wandering  fancy  or  the  wayward  heart ; 
Who  match  the  little  only  with  the  less, 
And  gaze  in  rapture  at  its  slight  excess, 
Proud  of  a  pebble,  as  the  brightest  gem 
Whose   light   might   crown   an   emperor's 

diadem. 

And,  most  of  all,  the  pure  ethereal  fire 
Which  seems  to  radiate  from  the  poet's  lyre 
Is  to  the  world  a  mystery  and  a  charm, 
An  jfEgis  wielded  on  a  mortal's  arm, 
While  Reason  turns  her  dazzled  eye  away, 
And  bows  her  sceptre  to  her  subject's  sway  ; 
And  thus  the  poet,   clothed  with  godlike 

state, 

Usurped  his  Maker's  title  —  to  create  ; 
He,  wrhose  thoughts  differing  not  in  shape, 

but  dress, 

What  others  feel  more  fitly  can  express, 
Sits  like  the  maniac  on  his  fancied  throne, 
Peeps  through  the  bars,  and  calls  the  world 

his  own. 

There  breathes  no  being  but  has  some 

pretence 

To  that  fine  instinct  called  poetic  sense  : 
The   rudest  savage,  roaming  through  the 

wild  ; 

The  simplest  rustic,  bending  o'er  his  child  ; 
The  infant,  listening  to  the  warbling  bird  ; 
The  mother,  smiling  at  its  half-formed 

word  ; 
The  boy   uncaged,  who  tracks   the  fields 

at  large  ; 
The  girl,  turned  matron  to  her  babe-like 

charge  ; 
The    freeman,    casting   with    unpurchased 

hand 

The  vote  that  shakes  the  turret  of  the  land  ; 
The  slave,  who,  slumbering  on  his  rusted 

chain, 
Dreams  of  the  palm-trees  on  his  burning 

plain  ; 
The  hot-cheeked  reveller,  tossing  down  the 

wine, 


POETRY 


To  join  the  chorus  pealing  "  Aulcl  lung' 
syne  ;  " 

The  gentle  maid,  whose  azure  eye  grows 
dim, 

While  Heaven  is  listening  to  her  evening 
hymn; 

The  jewelled  beauty,  when  her  steps  draw 
near 

The  circling  dance  and  dazzling  chande 
lier  ; 

E'en  trembling  age,  when  Spring's  renew 
ing  aii- 
Waves  the  thin  ringlets  of  his  silvered 
hair ;  — 

All,  all  are  glowing  with  the  inward  flame, 

Whose  wider  halo  wreathes  the  poet's 
name, 

While,  uiiembalmed,  the  silent  dreamer 
dies, 

His  memory  passing  with  his  smiles  and 
sighs! 

If  glorious  visions,  born  for  all  mankind, 
The  bright  auroras  of  our  twilight  mind; 
If  fancies,  varying  as  the  shapes  that  lie 
Stained  on  the  windows  of  the  sunset  sky  ; 
If  hopes,  that  beckon  with  delusive  gleams, 
Till  the  eve  dances  in  the  void  of  dreams; 
If  passions,  following  with  the  winds   that 

urge 
Earth's  wildest  wanderer    to    her  farthest 

verge; — 

If  these  on  all  some  transient  hours  bestow 
.Of  rapture  tingling  wiili  its  hectic  glow. 
Then  all  are  poets;  and  if  earth  had  rolled 
Her  myriad  centuries,  and  her  doom  \vere 

told, 

Each  moaning1  billow  of  her  shoreless  wave 
Would  wail  its  requiem  o'er  a  poet's  grave! 

If  to  embody  in  a  breathing  word 
Tones    that    the    spirit    trembled    when    it 

heard; 

To  fix  the  image  all  unveiled  and  warm, 
And  carve  in  language  its  ethereal  form, 
So  pure,  so  perfect,  that  the  lines  express 
Xo  meagre  shrinking,  no  unlaced  excess; 
To  feel  that  art,  in  living  truth,  has  taught 
Ourselves,     reflected     in     the     sculptured 

thought;  — 

If  this  alone  bestow  the  right  to  claim 
The  deathless  garland  and  the  sacred  name, 
Then  none  are  poets  save  the  saints  on  high, 
Whose  harps  can  murmur  all  that  words 

deny! 


But  though  to  none  is  granted  to  reveal 
In  perfect  semblance  all  that  each  may  feel, 
As  withered  flowers  recall  forgotten  love, 
So,  warmed  to  life,  our  faded  passions  move 
In  every  line,  where  kindling  fancy  throws 
The  gleam   of   pleasures  or  the   shade  of 
woes. 

When,  schooled  by  time,  the  stately  queen 

of  art 
Had  smoothed  the  pathways  leading  to  the 

heart, 
Assumed  her  measured  tread,  her  solemn 

tone, 
And  round  her  courts  the  clouds  of  fable 

thrown, 
The  wreaths  of  heaven  descended  on  her 

shrine, 
And  wondering  earth  proclaimed  the  Muse 

divine. 

Yet  if  her  votaries  had  but  dared  profane 
The  mystic  symbols  of  her  sacred  reign, 
I  low  had  they  smiled  beneath  the  veil  to 

find 
What  slender  threads  can  chain  the  mighty 

mind! 

Poets,    like     painters,    their     machinery 

claim, 
And    verse    bestows    the    varnish   and    the 

frame; 

Our  grating  English,  whose  Teutonic  jar 
Shakes   the   racked    axle  of  Art's   rattling 

car, 

Eits  like  mosaic  in  the  lines  that  gird 
_J'"ast  in  its  place  each  many-angled  word  ; 
Erom     Saxon     lips    Anacreon's      numbers 

glide, 

As  once  the}'  melted  on  the  Teian  tide. 
And,    fresh   transfused,    the     Iliad    thrills 

again 

Erom  Albion's  cliffs  as  o'er  Achaia's  plain! 
The  proud  heroic,  with  its  pulse-like  beat, 
Rings   like  the   cymbals   clashing  as    the}' 

meet; 
The    sweet    Spenserian,    gathering    as    it 

flows, 

Sweeps  gently  onward  to  its  dying  close, 
Where  waves  on  waves  in  long  succession 

pour, 

Till  the  ninth  billow  melts  along  the  shore; 
The  lonely  spirit  of  the  mournful  lay, 
Which  lives  immortal  as  the  verse  of  Gray, 
In  sable  plumage  slowly  drifts  along, 
On  eagle  pinion,  through  the  air  of  song; 


i8 


EARLIER   POEMS 


The  glittering  lyric  bounds  elastic  by, 
With  flashing  ringlets  and  exulting  eye, 
While  every  image,  in  her  airy  whirl, 
Gleams  like  a  diamond  on  a  dancing  girl! 

Born   with    mankind,    with    man's    ex 
panded  range 
And    varying    fates    the    poet's   numbers 

change ; 

Thus  in  his  history  may  we  hope  to  find 
Some  clearer  epochs  of  the  poet's  mind, 
As  from  the  cradle  of  its  birth  we  trace, 
Slow    wandering    forth,    the     patriarchal 
race. 

I 

When    the    green    earth,   beneath    the 

zephyr's  wing, 
Wears  011  her  breast  the  varnished  buds  of 

Spring; 
When    the    loosed    current,   as   its   folds 

uncoil, 

Slides  in  the  channels  of  the  mellowed  soil; 
When  the  young  hyacinth  returns  to  seek 
The   air  and   sunshine    with   her  emerald 

beak; 
When  the  light  snowrdrops,  starting  from 

their  cells, 

Hang  each  pagoda  with  its  silver  bells; 
When  the  frail 


bow 


\villow  twines  her  trailing 


With    pallid    leaves   that  sweep   the   soil 
^          below; 
When  the  broad  elm,  sole  empress  of  the 

plain, 
Whose  circling  shadow  speaks  a  century's 

reign, 

Wreathes   in   the   clouds   her    regal    dia 
dem,  — 

A  forest  waving  on  a  single  stem ;  — 
Then  mark  the  poet;  though   to   him  un 
known 
The  quaint-mouthed  titles,  such  as  scholars 

own, 

See  how  his  eye  in  ecstasy  pursues 
The   steps  of   Nature  tracked   in  radiant 

hues; 

Nay,  in  thyself,  whate'er  may  be  thy  fate, 
Pallid  with  toil  or  surfeited  with  state, 
Mark    how  thy  fancies,  with    the    vernal 

rose, 

Awake,  all  sweetness,  from  their  long  re 
pose  ; 

Then  turn  to  ponder  o'er  the  classic  page, 
Traced  with  the  idyls  of  a  greener  age, 


And  learn   the    instinct    which    arose    to 

warm 
Art's  earliest  essay  and  her  simplest  form. 

To   themes  like  these  her  narrow  path 

confined 
The    first-born    impulse    moving    in    the 

mind ; 

In  vales  unshaken  by  the  trumpet's  sound, 
Where    peaceful    Labor    tills    his   fertile 

ground, 

The  silent  changes  of  the  rolling  years, 
Marked    on    the    soil   or   dialled   on    the 

spheres, 
The     crested    forests    and     the     colored 

flowers, 
The     dewy     grottos     and     the     blushing 

bowers,  — 
These,    and    their    guardians,   who,    with 

liquid  names, 
Strephons    and    Chloes,   melt    in    mutual 

flames, 
Woo  the  young  Muses  from  their  mountain 

shade, 
To  make  Arcadias  in  the  lonely  glade. 

Nor    think    they   visit  only   with   their 

smiles 

The  fabled  valleys  and  Elysian  isles; 
He  who  is  wearied  of  his  village  plain 
May  roam  the  Edens  of  the  world  in  vain. 
'Tis  not  the  star-crowned  cliff,  the  cata 
ract's  flow, 

The  softer  foliage  or  the  greener  glow, 
The    lake  of   sapphire  or    the   spar-hung 

cave, 

The  brighter  sunset  or  the  broader  wave, 
Can  warm  his  heart  whom  every  wind  has 

blown 
To  every  shore,  forgetful  of  his  own. 

Home  of   our  childhood!  how  affection 

clings 
And  hovers  round   thee   with   her  seraph 

wings ! 
Dearer  thy  hills,  though  clad  in  autumn 

brown, 
Than    fairest   summits    which    the    cedars 

crown ! 
Sweeter    the    fragrance    of    thy    summer 

breeze 

Than  all  Arabia  breathes  along  the  seas! 
The  stranger's  gale  wafts  home  the  exile's 

sigh, 
For  the  heart's  temple  is  its  own  bine  sky! 


POETRY 


Oh  happiest  they,  whose  early  love  un 
changed, 

Hopes  undissolved,  and  friendship  unes- 
tranged, 

Tired  of  their  wanderings,  still  can  deign 
to  see 

Love,  hopes,  and  friendship,  centring  all  in 
thee! 

And  thou,  my  village!  as  again  I  tread 

Amidst  thy  living  and  above  thy  dead; 

Though  some  fair  playmates  guard  with 
chaster  fears 

Their  cheeks,  grown  holy  with  the  lapse  of 
years ; 

Though  with  the  dust  some  reverend  locks 
may  blend, 

Where  life's  last  mile-stone  marks  the 
journey's  end; 

On  every  bud  the  changing  year  recalls, 

The  brightening  glance  of  morning  mem 
ory  falls, 

Still  following  onward  as  the  months  un 
close 
\^The  balmy  lilac  or  the  bridal  rose; 

And  still  shall  follow,  till  they  sink  once 
more 

Beneath  the  snow-drifts  of  the  frozen 
shore, 

As  when  my  bark,  long  tossing  in  the  gale, 

Furled  in  her  port  her  tempest-rended  sail! 

What  shall  I  give  thee  ?     Can  a  simple 

lay, 

Flung  on  thy  bosom  like  a  girl's  bouquet, 
Do  more  than  deck  thee  for  an  idle  hour, 
Then  fall  unheeded,  fading  like  the  flower  ? 
Yet,  when  L  trod,  with  footsteps  wild  and 

free, 

The  crackling  leaves  beneath  yon  linden- 
tree, 
Panting   from  play  or  dripping  from  the 

stream, 
How    bright    the    visions    of    my    boyish 

dream! 
Or,    modest    Charles,    along    thy    broken 

edge, 
Black    with   soft    ooze    and    fringed    with 

arrowy  sedge, 

As  once  I  wandered  in  the  morning  sun, 
With  reeking  sandal  and  superfluous  gun, 
How  oft,  as  Fancy  whispered  in  the  gale, 
Thou  wast  the  Avon  of  her  flattering  tale! 
Ye    hills,    whose    foliage,    fretted    on   the 

skies, 


Prints  shado\vy  arches  on  their  evening  dyes, 
How  should  my  song  with  holiest  charm  in 
vest 

Each  dark  ravine  and  forest-lifting  crest  ! 
How  clothe  in  beauty  each  familiar  scene, 
Till  all  was  classic  on  my  native  green! 

As  the  drained  fountain,  filled  with  au 
tumn  leaves, 
The    field    swept    naked   of    its   garnered 

sheaves, 

So  wastes  at  noon  the  promise  of  our  dawn, 
The  springs  all  choking,   and   the  harvest 
gone. 

Yet  hear  the  lay  of  one  whose  natal  star 
Still    seemed  the   brightest  when  it  shone 

afar ; 
Whose  cheek,  grown  pallid  with  ungracious 

toil, 

Glows  in  the  welcome  of  his  parent  soil; 
And  ask  no  garlands  sought  beyond  the  tide, 
But  take  the  leaflets  gathered  at  your  side. 


II 

But  times   were   changed  ;  the  torch  of 

terror  came, 
To   light    the    summits   with    the    beacon's 

flame; 
The  streams  ran  crimson,  the  tall  mountain 

pines 

Rose  a  new  forest  o'er  embattled  lines; 
The  bloodless  sickle  lent  the  warrior's  steel, 
The    harvest    bowed     beneath    his    chariot 

wheel ; 
Where  late    the   wood-dove  sheltered  her 

repose 

The  raven  waited  for  the  conflict's  close; 
The  cuirassed  sentry  walked  his  sleepless 

round 

Where      Daphne     smiled     or     Amaryllis 
_         frowned; 
\Vhere  timid  minstrels  sung  their  blushing 

charms. 
Some    wild    Tyrtreus    called    aloud,    "  To 

arms!  r 

When  Glory    wakes,   when    fiery  spirits 

leap, 
Roused  bv  her  accents  from  their  tranquil 

sleep, 

The  ray  that  flashes  from  the  soldier's  crest 
Lights,  as  it  glances,  in  the  poet's  breast  ;  — 
Not  in  pale  dreamers,  whose  fantastic  lay 


20 


EARLIER    POEMS 


Toys  with  smooth  trifles  like  a  child  at  play, 
But  men,  who  act  the  passions  they  inspire, 
Who  wave  the  sabre  as  they  sweep  the  lyre! 

Ye  mild  enthusiasts,  whose  pacific  frowns 
Are  lost  like  dew-drops  caught  in  burning 

towns, 

Pluck  as  ye  will  the  radiant  plumes  of  fame, 
Break  Ca3sar's  bust  to  make  yourselves  a 

name ; 
But  if   your  country  bares  the  avenger's 

blade 

For  wrongs  unpunished  or  for  debts  unpaid, 
When  the  roused  nation  bids  her  armies 

form, 

And  screams  her  eagle  through  the  gather 
ing  storm, 
When  from  your  ports  the  bannered  frigate 

rides, 

Her  black  bows  scowling  to  the  crested  tides, 
Your  hour  has  past ;  in  vain  your  feeble 

cry 
As  the  babe's  wailing  to  the  thundering  sky! 

Scourge  of  mankind!  with  all  the  dread 

array 

That  wraps  in  wrath  thy  desolating  way, 
As  the  wild  tempest  wakes  the  slumbering 

sea, 

Thou  only  teachest  all  that  man  can  be. 
Alike  thy  tocsin  has  the  power  to  charm 
The  toil-knit  sinews  of  the  rustic's  arm, 
Or  swell  the  pulses  in  the  poet's  veins, 
And  bid  the  nations  tremble  at  his  strains. 

The  city  slept  beneath  the  moonbeam's 

glance, 
Her  white  walls  gleaming  through  the  vines 

of  France, 

And  all  was  hushed,  save  where  the  foot 
steps  fell, 

On  some  high  tower,  of  midnight  sentinel. 
But   one   still    watched  ;  no   self-encircled 

woes 

Chased  from  his  lids  the  angel  of  repose; 
He  watched,  he  wept,  for  thoughts  of  bitter 

years 
Bowed  his  dark  lashes,  wet  with  burning 

tears : 
His  country's  sufferings  and  her  children's 

shame 
Streamed  o'er  his  memory  like  a  forest's 

flame ; 
Each  treasured   insult,  each   remembered 

wrong, 


Rolled  through  his  heart  and  kindled  into 

song. 

His  taper  faded ;  and  the  morning  gales 
Swept  through  the  world  the  war-song  of 

Marseilles! 

Now,  while  around  the  smiles  of  Peace 

expand, 
And  Plenty's  wreaths  festoon  the  laughing 

land ; 
While  France  ships  outward  her  reluctant 

ore, 

And  half  our  navy  basks  upon  the  shore; 
From  ruder  themes  our  meek-eyed  Muses 

turn 
To  crown  with  roses  their  enamelled  urn. 

If  e'er  again  return  those  awful  da}-s 

Whose  clouds  were  crimsoned  with  the 
beacoirs  blaze, 

Whose  grass  was  trampled  by  the  soldier's 
heel, 

Whose  tides  were  reddened  round  the  rush 
ing  keel, 

God  grant  some  lyre  may  wake  a  nobler 
strain 

To  rend  the  silence  of  our  tented  plain! 

When  Gallia's  flag  its  triple  fold  displays, 

Her  marshalled  legions  peal  the  Marseil 
laise  ; 

When  round  the  German  close  the  war- 
clouds  dim, 

Far  through  their  shadows  floats  his  battle- 
hymn; 

When,  crowned  with  joy,  the  camps  of  Eng 
land  ring, 

A  thousand  voices  shout,  "  God  save  the 
King!  » 

When  victory  follows  with  our  eagle's 
glance, 

Our  nation's  anthem  pipes  a  country  dance ! 

Some  prouder  Muse,  when  comes  the 
hour  at  last. 

May  shake  our  hillsides  with  her  bugle- 
blast; 

Not  ours  the  task;  but  since  the  lyric  dress 

Relieves  the  statelier  with  its  sprightliness, 

Hear  an  old  song,  which  some,  perchance, 
have  seen 

In  stale  gazette  or  cobwebbed  magazine. 

There  was  an  hour  when  patriots  dared  pro 
fane 

The  mast  that  Britain  strove  to  bow  in  vain ; 

And  one,  who  listened  to  the  tale  of  shame, 


POETRY 


2  I 


Whose  heart  still  answered  to  that  sacred 

name, 
Whose  eye  still  followed  o'er  his  country's 

tides 

Thy  glorious  flag,  our  brave  Old  Ironsides! 
From  yon  lone  attic,  on  a  smiling  morn, 
Thus  mocked  the  spoilers  with  his  school 


boy  scorn. 


Ill 


When  florid  Peace  resumed  her  golden 

reign, 
And    arts    revived,   and    valleys    bloomed 

again, 
While    War   still   panted    on    his    broken 

blade, 
Once  more   the   Muse  her   heavenly   wing 

essayed. 
Rude  was  the  song  :  some  ballad,  stern  and 


Lulled   the  light  slumbers  of  the  soldier's 

child; 
Or  young  romancer,   with  his  threatening 

glance 

And  fearful  fables  of  his  bloodless  lance, 
Scared  the  soft  fancy  of  the  clinging  girls, 


But  when  long  years  the  stately  form  had 

bent, 

And  faithless  Memory  her  illusions  lent, 
So  vast  the  outlines  of  Tradition  grew 
That  History  wondered  at  the  shapes  she 

drew, 
And  veiled  at  length  their  too  ambitious 

hues 
Beneath  the  pinions  of  the  Epic  Muse. 

Far  swept  her  wing;  for  stormier  days 

had  brought 
With    darker     passions    deeper    tides    of  j 

thought. 
The  camp's  harsh  tumult  and  the  conflict's 

glow, 

The  thrill  of  triumph  and  the  gasp  of  woe, 
The  tender  parting  and  the  glad  return, 
The  festal  banquet  and  the  funeral  urn, 
And  all  the  drama  which  at  once  uprenrs 
Its  spectral  shadows  through  the  clash  of 

spears, 
From    camp    and    field    to    echoing    verse 

transferred, 
Swelled    the    proud    song    that    listening 

nations  heard. 


Why    floats    the    amaranth    in    eternal 

bloom 

O'er  Ilium's  turrets  and  Achilles'  tomb? 
Why   lingers   fancy    where    the    sunbeams 

smile 

On  Circe's  gardens  and  Calypso's  isle? 
Why  follows  memory  to  the  gate  of  Troy 
Her  plumed  defender  and    his    tremblin^ 

boy? 
Lo!    the   blind  dreamer,  kneeling   on    the 

sand 
To  trace  these   records  with  his  doubtful 

hand ; 

In  fabled  tones  his  own  emotion  flows, 
And  other  lips  repeat  his  silent  woes; 
In  Hector's  infant  see  the  babes  that  shun 
Those  deathlike  eyes,  unconscious  of  the 

sun, 

Or  in  his  hero  hear  himself  implore, 
"Give  me  to  see,  and  Ajax  asks  no  more!  " 

Thus  live  undying  through  the  lapse  of 
time 

The  solemn  legends  of  the  warrior's  clime; 

Like  Egypt's  pyramid  or  Pa^stum's  fane, 

They  stand  the  heralds  of  the  voiceless 
plain. 

Yet  not  like  them,  for  Time,  by  slow  de 
grees, 

Saps  the  gray  stone  and  wears  the  em 
broidered  frieze, 

And  Isis  sleeps  beneath  her  subject  Xile, 

And  crumbled  Neptune  strews  his  Dorian 
pik>; 

But  Art's  fair  fabric,  strengthening  as  it 
rears 

Its  laurelled  columns  through  the  mist  of 
years, 

As  the  blue  arches  of  the  bending  skies 

Still  gird  the  torrent,  following  as  it  flies, 

Spreads,  with  the  surges  bearing  on  man 
kind, 

Its  starred  pavilion  o'er  the  tides  of  mind! 

In  vain  the  patriot  asks  some  lofty  lay 

To  dress  in  state  our  wars  of  yesterday. 

The  classic  days,  those  mothers  of  ro 
mance, 

That  roused  a  nation  for  a  woman's  glance; 

The  age  of  mystery,  with  its  hoarded 
power, 

That  girt  the  tyrant  in  his  storied  tower, 

Have  passed  and  faded  like  a  dream  of 
youth, 

And  riper  eras  ask  for  history's  truth. 


22 


EARLIER   POEMS 


Oil  other  shores,  above  tlieir  mouldering 

towns, 

In  sullen  pomp  the  tall  cathedral  frowns, 
Pride  in  its  aisles  and  paupers  at  the  door, 
Which  feeds  the  beggars  whom  it  fleeced 

of  yore. 

Simple  and  frail,  our  lowly  temples  throw 
Their  slender  shadows  on  the  paths  below; 
Scarce  steal    the   winds,   that    sweep    his 

woodland  tracks, 

The  larch's  perfume  from  the  settler's  axe, 
Ere,  like  a  vision  of  the  morning  air, 
His  slight-framed  steeple  marks  the  house 

of  prayer; 
Its   planks   all  reeking  and  its  paint  un- 

dried, 

Its  rafters  sprouting  on  the  shady  side, 
It  sheds  the  raindrops  from  its  shingled 

eaves 
Ere  its  green  brothers  once  have  changed 

their  leaves. 

Yet    Faith's    pure    hymn,    beneath    its 

shelter  rude, 
Breathes   out   as   sweetly   to   the    tangled 

wood 
As  where  the  rays  through  pictured  glories 

pour 

On  marble  shaft  and  tessellated  floor;  — 
Heaven  asks  no  surplice  round  the  heart 

that  feels, 
And  all  is  holy  where  devotion  kneels. 

Thus    on    the    soil    the    patriot's    knee 

should  bend 

Which  holds  the  dust  once  living  to  de 
fend; 
Where'er  the  hireling  shrinks  before  the 

free, 

Each  pass  becomes  "  a  new  Thermopylae!  " 
Where'er  the  battles  of  the  brave  are  won, 
There   every  mountain  "  looks   on    Mara 
thon!  " 

Our  fathers  live;  they  guard  in  glory 
still 

The  grass-grown  bastions  of  the  fortressed 
hill; 

Still  ring  the  echoes  of  the  trampled 
gorge, 

With  God  and  Freedom !  England  and 
Saint  George  ! 

The  royal  cipher  on  the  captured  gun 

Mocks  the  sharp  night-dews  and  the  blis 
tering  sun; 


The  red-cross  banner   shades   its   captor's 

bust, 
Its   folds  still   loaded   with   the   conflict's 

dust; 
The    drum,     suspended     by    its    tattered 

marge, 
Once  rolled  and  rattled  to  the  Hessian's 

charge; 
The  stars   have   floated   from   Britannia's 

mast, 
The  redcoat's  trumpets  blown  the  rebel's 

blast. 

Point  to  the  summits  where  the  brave 

have  bled, 
Where  every   village   claims   its   glorious 

dead ; 
Say,  when  their  bosoms  met  the  bayonet's 

shock, 

Their  only  corselet  was  the  rustic  frock; 
Say,  when  they  mustered  to  the  gathering 

horn, 

The  titled  chieftain  curled  his  lip  in  scorn, 
Yet,  when  their  leader  bade  his  lines  ad 
vance, 

Xo  musket  wavered  in  the  lion's  glance ; 
Say,    when    they    fainted    in    the    forced 

retreat, 
They   tracked   the   snowdrifts    with   their 

bleeding  feet, 

Yet  still  their  banners,  tossing  in  the  blast, 
Bore  Ever  Ready,  faithful  to  the  last, 
Through  storm  and  battle,  till  they  waved 

again 
On  Yorktown's  hills  and  Saratoga's  plain  ! 

Then,  if  so  fierce  the  insatiate  patriot's 

flame, 
Truth  looks  too  pale  and  history  seems  too 

tame, 

Bid  him  await  some  new  Columbiad's  page, 
To  gild  the  tablets  of  an  iron  age, 
And  save  his  tears,  which  yet  may  fall  upon 
Some  fabled  field,  some  fancied  Washington! 

IV 

But  once  again,  from  their  ^Eolian  cave, 
The  winds  of  Genius  wandered  on  the  wave. 
Tired  of  the  scenes  the  timid  pencil  drew, 
Sick  of  the  notes  the  sounding  clarion  blew, 
Sated  with  heroes  who  had  worn  so  long 
The  shadowy  plumage  of  historic  song, 
The  new-born  poet  left  the  beaten  course, 
To  track  the  passions  to  their  living  source. 


POETRY 


Then  rose  the  Drama;  —  and  the  world 
admired 

Her  varied  page  with  deeper  thought  in 
spired: 

Bound  to  no  clime,  for  Passion's  throb  is   j 
one 

In  Greenland's  twilight  or  in  India's  sun; 

Born  for  no  age,  for  all  the  thoughts   that 
roll 

In  the  dark  vortex  of  the  stormy  soul, 

Unchained  in  song,  no  freezing  years  can   | 
tame; 

God  gave  them  birth,  and  man  is  still  the 
same. 

So  ftdl  on  life  her  magic  mirror  shone, 
Her  sister  Arts  paid  tribute  to  her  throne; 
One    reared    her    temple,  one    her    canvas 

warmed, 

And    Music  thrilled,   while    Eloquence  in 
formed. 

The  weary  rustic  left  his  stinted  task 
For  smiles  and  tears,  the  dagger  and  the    ! 

mask; 

The  sage,  turned  scholar,  half  forgot  his  lore,    j 
To  be  the  woman  he  despised  before. 
O'er  sense  and  thought  she  threw  her  golden   | 

chain. 

And  Time,  the  anarch,  spares  her  deathless 
reign. 

Thus  lives  Medea,  in  our  tamer  age, 
As  when  her  buskin   pressed    the   Grecian    j 

stage  ; 

Not  in  the  cells  where  frigid  learning  delves 
InAldine  folios  mouldering  on  their  shelves,    j 
But    breathing,  burning    in   the    glittering   j 

throng;, 

Whose  thousand  bravos  roll  untired  along, 
Circling  and  spreading  through  the  gilded 

halls, 
From    London's   galleries    to    San    Carlo's 

walls! 

Thus  shall  he  live  whose  more  than  mor 
tal  name 
Mocks    with    its    ray    the    pallid    torch    of 

Fame; 

So  proudly  lifted  that  it  seems  afar 
No  earthly  Pharos,  but  a  heavenly  star, 
Who,  unconiined  to  Art's  diurnal  bound, 
Girds  her  whole  zodiac  in  his  flaming  round, 
And  leads  the  passions,  like  the  orb  that 

guides, 
From  pole  to  pole,  the  palpitating  tides! 


Though  round  the  Muse  the  robe  of  song 

is  thrown, 

Think  not  the  poet  lives  in  verse  alone. 
Long  ere  the  chisel  of  the  sculptor  taught 
The  lifeless  stone  to  mock  the  living  thought ; 
Long  ere  the  painter  bade  the  canvas  glow 
With  every  line  the  forms  of  beauty  know; 
Long  ere  the  iris  of  the  Muses  threw 
On  every  leaf  its  own  celestial  hue, 
In  fable's  dress  the  breath  of  genius  poured, 
And   warmed  the   shapes   that  later  times 

adored. 

Untaught    by  Science  how  to  forge  the 

keys 

That  loose  the  gates  of  Nature's  mvsteries; 
Unschooled  by  Faith,  who,  with  her  angel 

tread, 
Leads  through  the  labyrinth  with  a  single 

•     thread, 
His    fancy,    hovering    round    her    guarded 

tower, 
Rained  through  its  bars  like  Danae's  golden 

shower. 

He  spoke;  the  sea-nymph  answered  from 

her  cave; 
He    called;    the    naiad    left    her    mountain 

wave: 

He  dreamed  of  beauty;  1<>,  amidst  his  dream, 
Narcissus,  mirrored  in  the  breathless  stream, 
And  night's  chaste  empress,  in  her  bridal 

play, 
Laughed  through  the  foliage  where  Endy- 

mion  lav; 

And  ocean  dimpled,  as  the  languid  swell 
Kissed  the  red  lip  of  Cytherea's  shell: 
Of    power,  —  Bellona    swept    the    crimson 

field, 
And    blue-eyed    Pallas    shook  her  Gore-on 

shield; 

O'er  the  hushed  waves  their  mightier  mon 
arch  drove, 
And  Ida  trembled  to  the  tread  of  Jove! 

So    every    grace    that    plastic    language 

knows 

To  nameless  poets  its  perfection  owes. 
The  rough-hewn  words  to  simplest  thoughts 

confined 

Were  cut  and  polished  in  their  nicer  mind; 
Caught  on  their  edge,  imagination's  ray 
Splits  into  rainbows,  shooting  far  away;  — 


EARLIER   POEMS 


From  sense  to  soul,  from  soul  to  sense,  it 

flies, 

And  through  all  nature  links  analogies; 
He  who  reads  right  will  rarely  look  upon 
A  better  poet  than  his  lexicon! 

There  is  a  race  which  cold,  nngenial  skies 
Breed   from   decay,   as    fungous   growths 

arise  ; 

Though  dying  fast,  yet  springing  fast  again, 
Which  still  usurps  an  unsubstantial  reign, 
With  frames  too  languid  for  the  charms  of 

sense, 

And  minds  worn  down  with  action  too  in 
tense  ; 
Tired  of   a  world  whose  joys  they  never 

knew, 

Themselves  deceived,  yet  thinking  all  un 
true  ; 
Scarce  men  without,  and   less   than  girls 

within, 

Sick  of  their  life  before  its  cares  begin;  — 
The  dull  disease,  which  drains  their  feeble 

hearts, 

To  life's  decay  some  hectic  thrills  imparts, 
And  lends  a  force  which,  like  the  maniac's 

power, 
Pays  with  blank  years  the  frenzy  of  an  hour. 

And  this  is  Genius!  Say,  does  Heaven 
degrade 

The  manly  frame,  for  health,  for  action 
made? 

Break  down  the  sinews,  rack  the  brow 
with  pains, 

Blanch  the  bright  cheek  and  drain  the  pur 
ple  veins, 

To  clothe  the  mind  with  more  extended 
sway, 

Thus  faintly  struggling  in  degenerate  clay  ? 

No!  gentle  maid,  too  ready  to  admire, 
Though   false   its   notes,   the   pale   enthu 
siast's  lyre ; 

If  this  be  genius,  though  its  bitter  springs 
Glowed   like   the    morn  beneath  Aurora's 

wings, 
Seek  not  the  source  whose  sullen  bosom 

feeds 

But  fruitless  flowers  and  dark,  envenomed 
weeds. 

But,  if  so  bright  the  dear  illusion  seems, 
Thou    wouldst    be    partner   of  thy    poet's 
dreams, 


And    hang    in    rapture    on   his    bloodless 

charms, 

Or  die,  like  Raphael,  in  his  angel  arms, 
Go  and  enjoy  thy  blessed  lot,  —  to  share 
In  Cowper's  gloom  or  Chattel-ton's  despair! 

Not   such  were  they  whom,  wandering 

o'er  the  waves, 
I   looked   to   meet,  but   only  found  their 

graves ; 
If   friendship's  smile,  the  better   part   of 

fame, 
Should  lend  my   song  the  only  wreath  I 

claim, 
Whose    voice    would     greet    me    with    a 

sweeter  tone, 
Whose  living  hand  more  kindly  press  my 

own, 
Than    theirs,  —  could     Memory,    as     her 

silent  tread 
Prints  the  pale  flowers  that  blossom  o'er 

the  dead, 
Those  breathless  lips,  now  closed  in  peace, 

restore, 
Or  wake  those  pulses  hushed  to  beat  no 

more? 

Thou  calm,  chaste  scholar  !     I  can  see 

thee  now, 

The  first  young  laurels  on  thy  pallid  brow, 
O'er  thy  slight  figure  floating  lightly  down 
In  graceful  folds  the  academic  gown, 
On   thy   curled  lip   the  classic  lines   that 

taught 
How  nice  the  mind  that  sculptured  them 

with  thought, 
And  triumph  glistening  in  the  clear  blue 

eye, 
Too  bright  to  live,  —  but  oh,  too  fair  to 

die! 

And   thou,  dear   friend,  whom    Science 

still  deplores, 
And  Love  still  mourns,  on  ocean-severed 

shores, 
Though  the  bleak  forest  twice  has  bowed 

with  snow 
Since  thou  wast  laid   its   budding   leaves 

below, 
Thine    image    mingles    with    my   closing 

strain, 

As  when  we  wandered  by  the  turbid  Seine, 
Both  blessed  with  hopes,  which  revelled, 

bright  and  free, 
On  all  we  longed  or  all  we  dreamed  to  be ; 


POETRY 


To    thec    the    amaranth    and    the    cypress  Whose  accents  echo  to  the  voice  that  sung. 

fell,  —  One  leap  of  Ocean  scatters  on  the  sand 

And  I  was  spared  to  breathe  this  last  fare-  The    quarried    bulwarks  of   the    loosening 

well!  land; 

One   thrill  of   earth  dissolves  a  century's 
But    lived  there    one  in  nnremembered  toil 

days,  Strewed  like  the  leaves  that  vanish  in  the 
Or  lives  there  still,  who  spurns  the  poet's  soil; 

bays,  One  hill  o'erflows,  and  cities  sink  below, 

Whose      fingers,    dewy     from      Castalia's  Their    marbles    splintering    in    the    lava's 

springs,  glow; 

Rest  on  the  lyre,  yet   scorn  to  touch  the  Hut  one  sweet  tone,  scarce   whispered  to 

strings  ?  the  air, 

Who  shakes  the  senate  with  the  silver  tone  From    shore    to    shore   the   blasts   of    ages 
The  groves  of  Pindus  might  have  sighed  to  bear; 

own?  One   humble  name,   which   oft,  perchance, 
Have    such    e'er   been  ?    Remember    Can-  has  borne 

ning's  name!  The   tyrant's   mockery   and    the   courtier's 
Do  such  still  live?     Let  '•  Alaric's  Dirge  "  scorn, 


proclaim! 


Towers  o'er  the  dust  of   earth's  forgotten 


graves, 

Immortal    Art!    where'er    the    rounded  i    As   once,  emerging   through  the   waste  of 

sky  waves, 

Bends  o'er  the  cradle   where    thv  children  •   The  rocky   Titan,   round    whose  shattered 

lie,  spear 

Their  home   is    earth,    their    herald    every  !   Coiled  the  last   whirlpool  of  the  drowning 
tongue  sphere! 


POEMS    PUBLISHED  BETWEEN    1837   AND   1848 


[AN  English  and  enlarged  edition  of  Dr. 
Holmes's  Poems  followed  the  American  edi 
tion  of  1830,  and  was  furnished  with  a  bio 
graphical  sketch  of  the  poet,  but  the  second 
American  edition  was  copyrighted  in  1848,  and 
published  nominally  in  1849.  It  contained 
the  poems  already  published  and  a  further 
group,  as  here  presented.  The  preface  to  the 
earlier  volume  was  omitted,  and  the  new  edi 
tion  was  introduced  by  a  note  headed  u  From 
a  letter  of  the  Author  to  the  Publishers," 
from  which  the  following'  passages  are  taken. 

"  As  these  productions  are  to  be  given  to  the 
public  again  at  your  particular  request,  I  must 
trust  that  you  will  make  all  proper  explana 
tions.  I  need  hardly  remind  you  that  a  part 
of  them  appeared  in  a  volume  published  about 
a  dozen  years  ago  ;  that  when  this  volume  had 
been  some  time  out  of  print,  another  edition 
was  printed,  at  your  suggestion,  in  London, 
but  I  suppose  sold  principally  to  this  country  ; 
and  that  the  present  edition  is  published  to 
please  you  rather  than  to  gratify  myself.  You 
will,  therefore,  take  the  entire  responsibility 
of  the  second  and  third  appearances,  except  so 
far  as  my  consent  involved  me  in  the  transac 
tions. 

"  Let  me  remark,  also,  that  it  was  only  to 
suit  your  washes  that  several  copies  of  verses, 


THE    PILGRIM'S    VISION 


IN  the  hour  of  twilight  shadows 

The  Pilgrim  sire  looked  out; 
He  thought  of  the  "  bloudy  Salvages  " 

That  lurked  all  round  about, 
Of  Wituwamet's  pictured  knife 

And  Pecksuot's  whooping  shout; 
For  the  baby's  limbs  were  feeble, 

Though  his  father's  arms  were  stout. 

His  home  was  a  freezing  cabin, 
Too  bare  for  the  hungry  rat; 

Its  roof  was  thatched  with  ragged  grass, 
And  bald  enough  of  that; 

The  hole  that  served  for  casement 
Was  glazed  with  an  ancient  hat, 


which  sound  very  much  like  school  exercises, 
were  allowed  to  remain  unexpunged.  If  any 
body  takes  the  trouble  to  attack  them,  you 
may  say  that  they  belong  to  the  department 
of  '  Early  '  or  '  Juvenile  '  Poems,  and  should 
be  so  ticketed.  But  stand  up  for  the  new 
verses,  especially  those  added  in  this  edition. 
Say  that  those  two  names,  '  Terpsichore  '  and 
'  Urania,'  may  perhaps  sound  a  little  fantas 
tic,  but  were  merely  intended  as  suggestive 
titles,  and  fall  back  upon  Herodotus.  Say 
that  many  of  the  lesser  poems  were  written 
for  meetings  more  or  less  convivial,  and  must 
of  course  show  something  like  the  fire-work 
frames  on  the  morning  of  July  5th.  If  any 
objection  is  made  to  that  bacchanalian  song, 
say  that  the  author  entirely  recedes  from  sev 
eral  of  the  sentiments  contained  in  it,  espe 
cially  that  about  strong  drink  being  a  natural 
want.  But  ask,  if  a  few  classical  reminis 
cences  at  a  banquet  may  not  be  quite  as  like 
to  keep  out  something  worse,  as  to  stand  in 
the  way  of  something  better. 

"  If  anything  pleasant  should  be  said  about 
'  the  new  edition,'  you  may  snip  it  out  of  the 
paper  and  save  it  for  me.  If  contrary  opinions 
are  expressed,  be  so  good  as  not  to  mark  with 
brackets,  carefully  envelop,  and  send  to  me,  as 
is  the  custom  with  many  friends."] 

And  the  ice  was  gently  thawing 
From  the  log  whereon  lie  sat. 

Along  the  dreary  landscape 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro, 
The  trees  all  clad  in  icicles, 

The  streams  that  did  not  flow; 
A  sudden  thought  flashed  o'er  him,  — 

A  dream  of  long  ago,  — 
He  smote  his  leathern  jerkin, 

And  murmured,  "  Even  so  !  " 

"  Come  hither,  God-be-Glorified, 

And  sit  upon  my  knee; 
Behold  the  dream  unfolding, 

Whereof  I  spake  to  thee 
By  the  winter's  hearth  in  Leyden 

And  on  the  stormy  sea. 


THE    PILGRIM'S    VISION 


True  is  the  dream's  beginning, — 
So  may  its  ending  be  ! 

"  I  saw  in  the  naked  forest 

Our  scattered  remnant  cast, 
A  screen  of  shivering  branches 

Between  them  and  the  blast; 
The  snow  was  falling  round  them, 

The  dying  fell  as  fast ; 
I  looked  to  see  them  perish, 

When  lo,  the  vision  passed. 

"  Again  mine  eyes  were  opened;  — 

The  feeble  had  waxed  strong, 
The  babes  had  grown  to  sturdy  men, 

The  remnant  was  a  throng; 
By  shadowed  lake  and  winding  stream, 

And  all  the  shores  along, 
The  howling  demons  quaked  to  hear 

The  Christian's  godly  song. 

"  They  slept,  the  village  fathers, 

By  river,  lake,  and  shore 
When  far  ado\vn  the  steep  of  Time 

The  vision  rose  once  more  : 
I  saw  along  the  winter  snow 

A  spectral  column  pour, 
And  high  above  their  broken  ranks 

A  tattered  Hag  they  bore. 

'•Their  Leader  rode  before  them, 

Of  bearing  calm  and  high, 
The  light  of  Heaven's  own  kindling 

Throned  in  his  awful  eye; 
These  were  a  Nation's  champions 

Her  dread  appeal  to  trv. 
God  for  the  right  !     1  faltered, 

And  lo,  the  train  passed  by. 

"Once  more  ;  —  the  strife  is  ended, 

The  solemn  issue  tried, 
The  Lord  of  Hosts,  his  mighty  arm 

lias  helped  our  Israel's  side; 
Gray  stone  and  grassy  hillock 

Tell  where  our  martyrs  died, 
But  peaceful  smiles  the  harvest, 

And  stainless  flows  the  tide. 

"  A  crash,  as  when  some  swollen  cloud 
Cracks  o'er  the  tangled  trees  ! 

With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar, 
Whose  smoking  decks  are  these  ? 

I  know  Saint  George's  blood-red  cross, 
Thou  Mistress  of  the  Seas, 


But  what  is  she  whose  streaming  bars 
Roll  out  before  the  breeze  ? 

•  Ah.  well  her  iron  ribs  are  knit, 

Whose  thunders  strive  to  quell 
The  bellowing  throats,  the  blazing  lips, 

That  pealed  the  Armada's  knell  ! 
The  mist  was  cleared,  —  a  wreath  of  stars 

Rose  o'er  the  crimsoned  swell, 
And,  wavering  from  its  haughty  peak, 

The  cross  of  England  fell  ! 

•  O    trembling    Faith  !    though   dark   the 

morn, 

A  heavenly  torch  is  thine1  ; 
While  feebler  races  melt  away, 

And  paler  orbs  decline, 
Still  shall  the  fiery  pillar's  ray 

Along  thy  pathway  shine, 
To  light  the  chosen  tribe  that  sought 

This  Western  Palestine  ! 

!    "I  see  the  living  tide  roll  on; 

It  crowns  with  flaming  towers 
The  icy  capes  of  Labrador, 

The  Spaniard's  'land  of  flowers  '  ! 
It  streams  beyond  the  splintered  ridge 

That  parts  the  northern  showers; 
From  eastern  rock  to  sunset  wave 

The  Continent  is  ours  !  " 

He  ceased,  the  grim  old  soldier-saint, 

Then  softly  bent  to  cheer 
The  Pilgrim-child,  whose  wasting  face 

Was  meeklv  turned  to  hear; 
And  drew  his  toil-worn  sleeve  across 

To  brush  the  maul)-  tear 
From  cheeks  that  never  changed  in  woe, 

And  never  blanched  in  fear. 

The  weary  Pilgrim  slumbers, 

His  resting-place  unknown  ; 
His  hands   were    crossed,  his  lips    were 
closed, 

The  dust  was  o'er  him  strown  ; 
The  drifting  soil,  the  mouldering  leaf, 

Along  the  sod  were  blown; 
His  mound  has  melted  into  earth, 

His  memory  lives  alone. 

So  let  it  live  unfading, 

The  memory  of  the  dead, 
Long  as  the  pale  anemone 

Springs  where  their  tears  were  shed, 


POEMS  PUBLISHP:D  BETWEEN  1837  AND  is4s 


Or,  raining  in  the  summer's  wind 

In  flakes  of  burning  red, 
The  wild  rose  sprinkles  with  its  leaves 

The  turf  where  once  they  bled! 

Yea,  when  the  frowning  bulwarks 

That  guard  this  holy  strand 
Have  sunk  beneath  the  trampling  surge 

In  beds  of  sparkling  sand, 
While  in  the  waste  of  ocean 

One  hoary  rock  shall  stand, 
Be  this  its  latest  legend, — 

HERE  WAS  THE  PILGRIM'S  LAND  ! 


THE   STEAMBOAT 

SEE  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads 

The  ridged  and  rolling  waves, 
As,  crashing  o'er  their  crested  heads, 

She  bows  her  surly  slaves  ! 
With  foam  before  and  fire  behind, 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea, 
That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind, 

Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 

The  morning  spray,  like  sea-born  flowers, 

With  heaped  and  glistening  bells, 
Falls  round  her  fast,  in  ringing  showers, 

With  every  wave  that  swells  ; 
And,  burning  o'er  the  midnight  deep, 

In  lurid  fringes  thrown, 
The  living  gems  of  ocean  sweep 

Along  her  flashing  zone. 

With  clashing  wheel  and  lifting  keel, 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 
When  winds  are  loud  and  billows  reel, 

She  thunders  foaming  by; 
When  seas  are  silent  and  serene, 

With  even  beam  she  glides, 
The  sunshine  glimmering  through  the  green 

That  skirts  her  gleaming  sides. 

Now,  like  a  wild  nymph,  far  apart 

She  veils  her  shadowy  form, 
The  beating  of  her  restless  heart 

Still  sounding  through  the  storm; 
Now  answers,  like  a  courtly  dame, 

The  reddening  surges  o'er, 
With  flying  scarf  of  spangled  flame, 

The  Pharos  of  the  shore. 

To-night  yon  pilot  shall  not  sleep, 
Who  trims  his  narrowed  sail; 


To-night  yon  frigate  scarce  shall  keep 

Her  broad  breast  to  the  gale; 
And  many  a  foresail,  scooped  and  strained, 

Shall  break  from  yard  and  stay, 
Before  this  smoky  wreath  has  stained 

The  rising  mist  of  day. 

Hark  !  hark  !  I  hear  yon  whistling  shroud, 

I  see  yon  quivering  mast; 
The  black  throat  of  the  hunted  cloud 

Is  panting  forth  the  blast! 
An  hour,  and,  whirled  like  winnowing  chaff, 

The  giant  surge  shall  fling 
His  tresses  o'er  yon  pennon  staff, 

White  as  the  sea-bird's  wing  ! 

Yet  rest,  ye  wanderers  of  the  deep; 

Nor  wind  nor  wave  shall  tire 
Those  fleshless  arms,  whose  pulses  leap 

With  floods  of  living  fire; 
Sleep  on,  and,  when  the  morning  light 

Streams  o'er  the  shining  bay, 
Oh  think  of  those  for  whom  the  night 

Shall  never  wake  in  day  ! 


LEXINGTON 

SLOWLY  the   mist   o'er   the   meadow  was 

creeping, 
Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the 

sun, 
When  from  his  couch,  while  his  children 

were  sleeping, 
Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his 

gun. 

Waving  her  golden  veil 
Over  the  silent  dale, 
Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and 

spire ; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh, 
While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 

On  the  smooth  green  where  the  fresh  leaf 

is  springing 

Calmly  the  first-born  of  glory  have  met; 
Hark  !    the   death-volley  around   them   is 

ringing  ! 
Look!    with  their   life-blood   the   young 

grass  is  wet! 

Faint  is  the  feeble  breath, 
Murmuring  low  in  death, 
"  Tell  to  our  sons  how  their  fathers  have 
died;" 


ON   LENDING   A   PUNCH-BOWL 


29 


Nerveless  the  iron  hand, 
Raised  for  its  native  land, 
Lies  by  the  weapon  that  gleams  at  its  side. 

Over  the  hillsides  the  wild  knell  is  tolling, 
From  their   far   hamlets    the  yeomanry 

come  ; 
As  through  the  storm-clouds  the  thunder- 

burst  rolling, 

Circles  the  beat  of  the  mustering  drum. 
Fast  on  the  soldier's  path 
Darken  the  waves  of  wrath,  — 
Long  have  they  gathered  and  loud   shall 

they  fall; 

Red  glares  the  musket's  flash, 
Sharp  rings  the  rifle's  crash, 
Blazing    and   clanging    from    thicket    and 
wall. 

Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dan 

cing, 

Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again; 
Proudly    at    morning    the    war-steed    was 

prancing, 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the 

rein; 

Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 
Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 
Torn    is    the    silken-fringed    red    cross    on 

high; 

Many  a  belted  breast 
Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the  herd  have  passed 


Snow-girdled  crags  where  the  hoarse  wind 

is  raving, 
Rocks  where  the  weary  floods  murmur 

and  wail, 
Wilds  where   the    fern   by  the   furrow   is 

waving, 
Reeled  with  the  echoes  that  rode  on  the 

gale; 

Far  as  the  tempest  thrills 
Over  the  darkened  hills, 
Far  as  the  sunshine  streams  over  the  plain, 
Roused  by  the  tyrant  band, 
Woke  all  the  mighty  land, 
Girded  for  battle,  from  mountain  to  main. 

Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs  are 

lying! 
Shroudless   and   tombless  they  sunk   to 

their  rest, 
While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold  flying 


Wraps    the    proud    eagle    they   roused 

from  his  nest. 

Borne  on  her  Northern  pine, 

Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 

Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to 

sun ; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free, 
Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Floats  the  fair  emblem  her   heroes   have 
won! 

ON    LENDING   A    PUNCH-BOWL 

This  "punch-bowl"  was,  according1  to  old 
family  tradition,  a  caudle-cup.  It  is  a  massive 
piece  of  silver,  its  cherubs  and  other  orna 
ments  of  coarse  repousse*  work,  and  has  two 
handles  like  a  loving'-cup,  by  which  it  was 
held,  or  passed  from  g'uest  to  g'uest. 

THIS  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  it  tells  of 

good  old  times, 
Of  joyous  days  and  jolly  nights,  and  merry 

Christmas  times; 
They   were   a   free    and    jovial    race,    but 

honest,  brave,  and  true, 
Who  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when 

this  old  bowl  was  new. 

A   Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar,  —  so 

runs  the  ancient  tale; 
'T  was  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith, 

whose  arm  was  like  a  flail; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for 

fear  his  strength  should  fail, 
He  wiped  his  brow  and  quaffed  a  cup  of 

good  old  Flemish  ale. 

'T  was  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to 

please  his  loving  dame, 
Who   saw    the    cherubs,   and   conceived   a 

longing  for  the  same; 
And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another 

twig  was  found, 
'T  was   filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot, 

and  handed  smoking  round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length  a 
Puritan  divine, 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a 
little  wine, 

But  hated  punch  and  prelacy;  and  so  it 
was,  perhaps, 

He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  con 
venticles  and  schnapps. 


POEMS    PUBLISHED    BETWEEN    1837    AND    1848 


And    then,   of   course,   you   know   what 's 

next:  it  left  the  Dutchman's  shore 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came,  — 

a  hundred  souls  and  more,  — 
Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their 

new  abodes,  — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least 

a  hundred  loads. 

'T  was  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night 

was  closing  dim, 
When  brave  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl, 

and  filled  it  to  the  brim; 
The  little  Captain  stood  and  stirred    the 

posset  with  his  sword, 
And    all    his    sturdy    men-at-arms    were 

ranged  about  the  board. 

He   poured   the  fiery   Hollands   in,  —  the 

man  that  never  feared,  — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and 

wiped  his  yellow  beard; 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers  —  the  men 

that  fought  and  prayed  — 
All  drank  as  't  were  their  mother's  milk, 

and  not  a  man  afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the 

screaming  eagle  flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop,  the 

soldier's  wild  halloo; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he 

taught  to  kith  and  kin  : 
"  Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find 

he  smells  of  Hollands  gin  !  " 

A    hundred    years,   and    fifty   more,   had 

spread  their  leaves  and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each 

little  cherub's  nose, 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but 

not  in  mirth  or  joy,  — 
'Twas   mingled   by   a   mother's    hand   to 

cheer  her  parting  boy. 

Drink,  John,  she  said,  't  will  do  you  good, 

—  poor  child,  you  '11  never  bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in 

the  midnight  air; 
And  if  —  God  bless  me  !  —  you  were  hurt, 

't  would  keep  away  the  chill. 
So  John  did  drink,  —  and  well  he  wrought 

that  night  at  Bunker's  Hill  ! 


I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in 

good  old  English  cheer; 
I  tell  you,  't   was  a  pleasant  thought  to 

bring  its  symbol  here. 
'T  is   but  the  fool  that  loves  excess;  hast 

tliou  a  drunken  soul  ? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my 

silver  bowl  ! 

I    love    the    memory   of    the    past,  —  its 

pressed  yet  fragrant  flowers,  — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls,  the 

ivy  011  its  towers; 
Nay,  this  poor  bauble  it  bequeathed,  —  my 

eyes  grow  moist  and  dim, 
To   think   of    all   the   vanished   joys   that 

danced  around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it 

straight  to  me; 
The   goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er 

the  liquid  be; 
And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect 

me  from  the  sin 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words, 

—  "  My     dear,     where     have    you 

been  ?  " 


A    SONG 

FOR  THE    CENTENNIAL    CELEBRATION    OF 
HARVARD  COLLEGE,  1836 

This  song1,  which  I  had  the  temerity  to 
sing  myself  (felix  audacia,  Mr.  Franklin  Dex 
ter  had  the  goodness  to  call  it),  was  sent  in 
a  little  too  late  to  be  printed  with  the  official 
account  of  the  celebration.  It  was  written 
at  the  suggestion  of  Dr.  Jacob  Bigelow,  who 
thought  the  popular  tune  "  The  Poacher's 
Song  "  would  be  a  good  model  for  a  lively 
ballad  or  ditty.  He  himself  wrote  the  admir 
able  Latin  song  to  be  found  in  the  record  of 
the  meeting. 

WHEN  the  Puritans  came  over 

Our  hills  and  swamps  to  clear, 
The  woods  were  full  of  catamounts, 

And  Indians  red  as  deer, 
With  tomahawks  and  scalping-knives, 

That  make  folks'  heads  look  queer  ; 
Oh  the  ship  from  England  used  to  bring 

A  hundred  wigs  a  year  ! 


THE   ISLAND    HUNTING-SONG 


The  crows  came  cawing  through  the  air 

To  pluck  the  Pilgrims'  corn, 
The  bears  came  snuffing  round  the  door 

Whene'er  a  babe  was  born, 
The  rattlesnakes  were  bigger  round 

Than  the  but  of  the  old  ram's  horn 
The  deacon  blew  at  meeting  time 

On  every  "  Sabbath  "  morn. 

But    soon    they    knocked    the    wigwams 
down, 

And  pine-tree  trunk  and  limb 
Began  to  sprout  among  the  leaves 

In  shape  of  steeples  slim; 
And  out  the  little  wharves  were  stretched 

Along  the  ocean's  rim, 
And  up  the  little  school-house  shot 

To  keep  the  boys  in  trim. 

And  when  at  length  the  College  rose, 

The  sachem  cocked  his  eye 
At  every  tutor's  meagre  ribs 

Whose  coat-tails  whistled  by: 
But  when  the  Greek  and  Hebrew  words 

Came  tumbling  from  his  jaws, 
The  copper-colored  children  all 

Ran  screaming  to  the  squaws. 

And  who  was  on  the  Catalogue 

When  college  was  begun  ? 
Two  nephews  of  the  President, 

And  the  Professor's  son  ; 
(They  turned  a  little  Indian  by, 

As  brown  as  any  bun;) 
Lord  !  how  the  seniors  knocked  about 

The  freshman  class  of  one  ! 

They  had  not  then  the  dainty  things 

That  commons  now  afford, 
But  succotash  and  hominy 

AVere  smoking  on  the  board  ; 
They  did  not  rattle  round  in  gigs, 

Or  dash  in  long-tailed  blues, 
But  always  on  Commencement  days 

The  tutors  blacked  their  shoes. 

God  bless  the  ancient  Puritans  ! 

Their  lot  was  hard  enough; 
But  honest  hearts  make  iron  arms, 

And  tender  maids  are  tough  ; 
So  love  and  faith  have  formed  and  fed 

Our  true-born  Yankee  stuff, 
And  keep  the  kernel  in  the  shell 

The  British  found  so  roua'h  ! 


THE  ISLAND  HUNTING-SONG 

The  island  referred  to  is  a  domain  of 
princely  proportions,  which  has  long-  been  the 
seat  of  a  generous  hospitality.  Nauslion  is  its 
old  Indian  name.  William  Swain,  Esq.,  com 
monly  known  as  ';  the  Governor,''  was  the  pro 
prietor  of  it  at  the  time  when  this  song1  was 
written.  Mr.  John  M.  Forbes  is  his  worthy 
successor  in  territorial  rights  and  as  a  hospit 
able  entertainer.  The  Island  Hook  has  been 
the  recipient  of  many  poems  from  visitors  and 
friends  of  the  owners  of  the  old  mansion.  [In 
The  Autocrat,  section  ii.,  is  an  animated  account 
of  Nauslion,  followed  by  a  poem,  Sun  and 
Shadow,  written  there.] 

No  more  the  summer  floweret  charms, 

The  leaves  will  soon  be  sere, 
And  Autumn  folds  his  jewelled  arms 

Around  the  dying  year  ; 
So,  ere  the  waning  seasons  claim 

Our  leafless  groves  awhile, 
With  gulden  wine  and  glowing  flame 

We  '11  crown  our  lonely  isle. 

Once  more  the  merry  voices  sound 

Within  the  antlered  hall. 
And  long  and  loud  the  baying  hounds 

Return  the  hunter's  call  ; 
And  through  the  woods,  and  o'er  the  hill, 

And  far  along  the  bay, 
The  driver's  horn  is  sounding  shrill,  — 

Up,  sportsmen,  and  away  ! 

No  bars  of  steel  or  walls  of  stone 

Our  little  empire  bound, 
But,  circling  with  his  azure  zone, 

The  sea  runs  foaming  round  ; 
The  whitening  wave,  the  purpled  skies, 

The  blue  and  lifted  shore, 
Braid  with  their  dim  and  blending  dyes 

Our  wide  horizon  o'er. 

And  who  will  leave  the  grave  debate 

That  shakes  the  smoky  town, 
To  rule  amid  our  island-state, 

And  wear  our  oak-leaf  crown  ? 
And  who  will  be  awhile  content 

To  hunt  our  woodland  game, 
And  leave  the  vulgar  pack  that  scent 

The  reeking  track  of  fame  ? 

Ah,  who  that  shares  in  toils  like  these 
Will  sigh  not  to  prolong 


POEMS   PUBLISHED   BETWEEN    1837   AND    1848 


Our  days  beneath  the  broad-leaved  trees, 
Our  nights  of  mirth  and  song  ? 

Then  leave  the  dust  of  noisy  streets, 
Ye  outlaws  of  the  wood, 

And  follow  through  his  green  retreats 
Your  noble  Robin  Hood. 


DEPARTED  DAYS 

YES,  dear  departed,  cherished  days, 

Could  Memory's  hand  restore 
Your  morning  light,  your  evening  rays, 

From  Time's  gray  urn  once  more, 
Then  might  this  restless  heart  be  still, 

This  straining  eye  might  close, 
And  Hope  her  fainting  pinions  fold, 

While  the  fair  phantoms  rose. 

But,  like  a  child  in  ocean's  arms, 

We  strive  against  the  stream, 
Each  moment  farther  from  the  shore 

Where  life's  young  fountains  gleam  ; 
Each  moment  fainter  wave  the  fields, 

And  wider  rolls  the  sea; 
The   mist    grows    dark,  —  the    sun   goes 
down,  — 

Day  breaks,  —  and  where  are  we  ? 


THE   ONLY   DAUGHTER 

ILLUSTRATION  OF  A  PICTURE 

THEY  bid  me  strike  the  idle  strings, 

As  if  my  summer  days 
Had  shaken  sunbeams  from  their  wings 

To  warm  my  autumn  lays  ; 
They  bring  to  me  their  painted  urn, 

As  if  it  were  not  time 
To  lift  my  gauntlet  and  to  spurn 

The  lists  of  boyish  rhyme; 
And  were  it  not  that  I  have  still 

Some  weakness  in  my  heart 
That  clings  around  my  stronger  will 

And  pleads  for  gentler  art, 
Perchance  I  had  not  turned  away 

The  thoughts  grown  tame  with  toil, 
To  cheat  this  lone  and  pallid  ray, 

That  wastes  the  midnight  oil. 

Alas  !  with  every  year  I  feel 
Some  roses  leave  my  brow  ; 

Too  young  for  wisdom's  tardy  seal, 
Too  old  for  garlands  now. 


Yet,  while  the  dewy  breath  of  spring 

Steals  o'er  the  tingling  air, 
And  spreads  and  fans  each  emerald  wing 

The  forest  soon  shall  wear, 
How  bright  the  opening  year  would  seem, 

Had  I  one  look  like  thine 
To  meet  me  when  the  morning  beam 

Unseals  these  lids  of  mine  ! 
Too  long  I  bear  this  lonely  lot, 

That  bids  my  heart  run  wild 
To  press  the  lips  that  love  me  not, 

To  clasp  the  stranger's  child. 

How  oft  beyond  the  dashing  seas, 

Amidst  those  royal  bowers, 
Where  danced  the  lilacs  in  the  breeze, 

And  swung  the  chestnut-flowers, 
I  wandered  like  a  wearied  slave 

Whose  morning  task  is  done, 
To  watch  the  little  hands  that  gave 

Their  whiteness  to  the  sun; 
To  revel  in  the  bright  young  eyes, 

Whose  lustre  sparkled  through 
The  sable  fringe  of  Southern  skies 

Or  gleamed  in  Saxon  blue  ! 
How  oft  I  heard  another's  name 

Called  in  some  truant's  tone  ; 
Sweet  accents  !  which  I  longed  to  claim, 

To  learn  and  lisp  my  own  ! 

Too  soon  the  gentle  hands,  that  pressed 

The  ringlets  of  the  child, 
Are  folded  on  the  faithful  breast 

Where  first  he  breathed  and  smiled; 
Too  oft  the  clinging  arms  untwine, 

The  melting  lips  forget, 
And  darkness  veils  the  bridal  shrine 

Where  wreaths  and  torches  met ; 
If  Heaven  but  leaves  a  single  thread 

Of  Hope's  dissolving  chain, 
Even  when  her  parting  plumes  are  spread, 

It  bids  them  fold  again; 
The  cradle  rocks  beside  the  tomb; 

The  cheek  now  changed  and  chill 
Smiles  on  us  in  the  morning  bloom 

Of  one  that  loves  us  still. 

Sweet  image  !  I  have  done  thee  wrong 

To  claim  this  destined  lay  ; 
The  leaf  that  asked  an  idle  song 

Must  bear  my  tears  away. 
Yet  in  thy  memory  shouldst  thou  keep 

This  else  forgotten  strain, 
Till  years  have  taught  thine  eyes  to  weep, 

And  flattery's  voice  is  vain; 


LINES 


Oh  then,  thou  fledgling  of  the  nest, 

Like  the  long-wandering  dove, 
Thy  weary  heart  may  faint  for  rest, 

As  mine,  on  changeless  love ; 
And  while  these  sculptured  lines  retrace 

The  hours  now  dancing  by, 
This  vision  of  thy  girlish  grace 

May  cost  thee,  too,  a  sigh. 


SONG 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  DINNER  GIVEN  TO 
CHARLES  DICKENS  BY  THE  YOUNG 
MEN  OF  BOSTON,  FEBRUARY  I,  1842 

THE  stars  their  early  vigils  keep, 

The  silent  hours  are  near, 
When  drooping  eyes  forget  to  weep,  — 

Yet  still  we  linger  here  ; 
And  what  —  the  passing  churl  may  ask  — 

Can  claim  such  wondrous  power, 
That  Toil  forgets  his  wonted  task, 

And  Love  his  promised  hour  ? 

The  Irish  harp  no  longer  thrills, 

Or  breathes  a  fainter  tone  ; 
The  clarion  blast  from  Scotland's  hills, 

Alas  !  no  more  is  blown  ; 
And  Passion's  burning  lip  bewails 

Her  Harold's  wasted  fire, 
Still  lingering  o'er  the  dust  that  veils 

The  Lord  of  England's  lyre. 

But  grieve  not  o'er  its  broken  strings, 

Nor  think  its  soul  hath  died, 
While    yet   the    lark    at    heaven's    gate 
sings, 

As  once  o'er  Avon's  side  ; 
Willie  gentle  summer  sheds  her  bloom, 

And  dewy  blossoms  wave, 
Alike  o'er  Juliet's  storied  tomb 

And  Xelly's  nameless  grave. 

Thou  glorious  island  of  the  sea  ! 

Though  wide  the  wasting  flood 
That  parts  our  distant  land  from  thee, 

We  claim  thy  generous  blood; 
Nor  o'er  thy  far  horizon  springs 

One  hallowed  star  of  fame, 
But  kindles,  like  an  angel's  wings, 

Our  western  skies  in  flame  ! 


LINES 

RECITED    AT    THE    BERKSHIRE    JUBILEE, 
PITTSFIELD,  MASS.,  AUGUST    23,  1844 

[Before  reading-  these  Lines,  the  poet  spoke 
as  follows  : 

"  One  of  my  earliest  recollections  is  of  an 
annual  pilgrimage  made  by  my  parents  to  the 
west.  The  young-  horse  was  brought  up.  fatted 
by  a  week's  rest  and  liig-h  feeding-,  prancing-  and 
caracoling-  to  the  door.  It  came  to  the  corner 
and  was  soon  over  the  western  hills.  He  was 
g-one  a  fortnight;  and  one  afternoon  —  it  al 
ways  seems  to  me  it  was  a  sunny  afternoon  — 
we  saw  an  equipage  crawling-  from  the  west 
toward  the  old  homestead  ;  the  young-  horse, 
Avho  set  out  fat  and  prancing-,  worn  thin  and 
reduced  by  a  long-  journey  —  the  chaise  cov 
ered  with  dust,  and  all  speaking-  of  a  terrible 
crusade,  a  formidable  pilgrimage.  Winter- 
evening  stories  told  me  where  —  to  Berkshire, 
to  the  borders  of  Xew  York,  to  the  old  domain, 
owned  so  long-  that  there  seemed  a  kind  of  he 
reditary  love  for  it.  Many  years  passed  away, 
and  I  travelled  down  the  beautiful  Rhine.  I 
wished  to  see  the  equally  beautiful  Hudson. 
I  found  myself  at  Albany  ;  a  few  hours'  ride 
brought  me  to  Pittsfiekl,  and  I  went  to  the 
little  spot,  the  scene  of  this  pilgrimage  —  a 
mansion  —  and  found  it  surrounded  by  a  beau 
tiful  meadow,  through  which  the  winding-  river 
made  its  course  in  a  thousand  fantastic  curves  ; 
the  mountains  reared  their  heads  around  it, 
the  blue  air  which  makes  our  city-pale  cheeks 
again  to  deepen  with  the  line  of  health,  cours 
ing-  about  it  pure  and  free.  I  recognized  it  as 
the  scene  of  the  annual  pilgrimage.  Since  then 
I  have  made  an  annual  visit  to  it. 

"  In  17- Jo,  Hon.  Jacob  Wendell,  my  grand 
father  in  the  maternal  line,  bought  a  township 
not  then  laid  out  —  the  township  of  Poontoo- 
suck  —  and  that  little  spot  which  we  still  hold 
is  the  relic  of  twenty-four  thousand  acres  of 
baronial  territory.  When  I  say  this,  no  feel 
ing-  which  can  be  the  subject  of  ridicule  ani 
mates  my  bosom.  I  know  too  well  that  the 
hills  and  rocks  outlast  our  families.  I  know 
we  fall  upon  the  places  we  claim,  as  the  leaves 
of  the  forest  fall,  and  as  passed  the  soil  from 
the  hands  of  the  original  occupants  into  the 
hands  of  my  immediate  ancestors,  I  know  it 
must  pass  from  me  and  mine  ;  and  yet  with 
pleasure  and  pride  I  feel  I  can  take  every  in 
habitant  by  the  hand  and  say.  If  I  am  not  a 
son  or  a  grandson,  or  even  a  nephew  of  this 
fair  county,  I  am  at  least  allied  to  it  by  hered 
itary  relation."] 


34 


POEMS    PUBLISHED    BETWEEN    1837    AND    1848 


COME  back  to   your  mother,  ye   children, 

for  shame, 
Who  have  wandered  like  truants  for  riches 

or  fame  ! 
With  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  sprig  in 

her  cap, 
She  calls  you  to  feast  from  her  bountiful 

lap. 

Come  out  from  your  alleys,  your  courts, 
and  your  lanes, 

And  breathe,  like  young  eagles,  the  air  of 
our  plains  ; 

Take  a  whiff  from  our  fields,  and  your  ex 
cellent  wives 

Will  declare  it 's  all  nonsense  insuring  your 
lives. 

Come  you  of  the  law,  who  can  talk,  if  you 

please, 
Till  the  man  in  the  moon  will  allow  it  's  a 

cheese, 
And  leave  "  the  old  lady,  that  never  tells 

lies," 
To  sleep  with  her  handkerchief   over  her 

eyes. 

Ye  healers  of  men,  for  a  moment  decline 
Your    feats    in    the    rhubarb   and   ipecac 

line ; 
While   you   shut   up  your  turnpike,  your 

neighbors  can  go 
The  old  roundabout  road   to   the   regions 

below. 

You  clerk,  on  whose  ears  are  a  couple  of 

pens, 
And  whose  head  is  an  ant-hill  of  units  and 

tens, 
Though  Plato  denies  you,  we  welcome  you 

still 
As  a   featherless   biped,  in  spite   of  your 

quill. 

Poor  drudge  of  the    city  !  how   happy   he 

feels, 
With  the  burs  on  his  legs  and  the  grass  at 

his  heels  ! 

No  dodger  behind,  his  bandannas  to  share, 
No   constable  grumbling,    "  You  must  n't 

walk  there  ! " 

In  yonder  green  meadow,  to  memory  dear, 
He  slaps  a  mosquito  and  brushes  a  tear; 


The  dew-drops  hang  round  him  on  blossoms 

and  shoots, 
He  breathes  but  one  sigh  for  his  youth  and 

his  boots. 

There  stands  the  old  school-house,  hard  by 

the  old  church; 
That   tree   at  its   side   had   the  flavor   of 

birch ; 
Oh,  sweet  were  the   days  of  his   juvenile 

tricks, 
Though  the  prairie  of  youth  had   so  many 

"  big  licks." 

By  the  side  of  yon  river  he  weeps  and  he 

slumps, 
The  boots  fill  with  water,  as  if  they  were 

pumps, 
Till,  sated  with  rapture,  he  steals   to   his 

bed, 
With  a  glow  in  his  heart  and  a  cold  in  his 

head. 

'T  is  past,  —  he  is  dreaming,  —  I  see  him 

again  ; 

The  ledger  returns  as  by  legerdemain; 
His  neckcloth  is   damp  with   an   easterly 

flaw, 
And  he  holds  in   his   fingers   an   omnibus 

straw. 

He  dreams  the  chill  gust  is  a  blossomy 
gale, 

That  the  straw  is  a  rose  from  his  dear  na 
tive  vale  ; 

And  murmurs,  unconscious  of  space  and  of 
time, 

"  A  1.    Extra  super.     Ah,  is  n't  it  PRIME  !  " 

Oh,    what   are   the    prizes    we   perish    to 

win 
To  the  first  little  "shiner  "  we  caught  with 

a  pin  ! 

No  soil  upon  earth  is  so  dear  to  our  eyes 
As  the  soil  we   first   stirred   in   terrestrial 

pies  ! 

Then  come  from  all  parties  and  parts  to 

our  feast  ; 
Though  not  at  the  "  Astor,' '  we  '11  give  you 

at  least 

A  bite  at  an  apple,  a  seat  on  the  grass, 
And  the  best  of  old  —  water  —  at  nothing 

a  glass. 


NUX   POSTCCENATICA 


35 


NUX    POSTCCENATICA 

I  WAS  sitting  with  my  microscope,  upon  my 

parlor  rug, 
With  a  very  heavy  quarto  and  a  very  lively 

Lug-  ; 
The  true  bug  had  been  organized  with  only 

two  antennas, 
But  the  humbug  in  the  copperplate  would 

have  them  twice  as  many. 

And   I  thought,  like   Dr.    Faustus,  of    the 

emptiness  of  art, 
How  we  take   a  fragment  for  the  whole, 

and  call  the  whole  a  part, 
When  I  heard  a  heavy  footstep  that  was 

loud  enough  for  two, 
And  a  man  of  forty  entered,  exclaiming, 

"  How  d'  ye  do  ?  " 

lie  was  not  a  ghost,  my  visitor,  but  solid 

flesh  and  bone  ; 
He  wore  a  Palo  Alto  hat,  his  weight  was 

twenty  stone; 
(It 's  odd  how  hats  expand  their  brims   as 

riper  years  invade, 
As  if  when  life  had    reached    its    noon   it 

wanted  them  for  shade  !) 

I  lost  my  focus,  —  dropped  my  book,  — 
the  bug,  who  was  a  llea, 

At  once  exploded,  and  commenced  experi 
ments  on  me. 

They  have  a  certain  heartiness  that  fre 
quently  appalls, — 

Those  mediaeval  gentlemen  in  semilunar 
smalls  ! 

"  My  boy,"  he  said,  (colloquial  ways,  — the 

vast,  broad-hatted  man,) 
"  Come  dine  with  us  on  Thursday  next,  — 

you  must,  you  know  you  can; 
We  're  going  to  have  a  roaring  time,  with 

lots  of  fun  and  noise, 
Distinguished  guests,  et  cetera,  the  JUDGE, 

and  all  the  boys." 

Not  so,  —  I  said,  —  my  temporal  bones  are 

showing  pretty  clear. 
It 's  time  to  stop,  —  just  look  and  see  that 

hair  above  this  ear ; 
My  golden  days  are  more    than  spent,  — 

and,  what  is  very  strange, 
If  these  are  real  silver  hairs,  I  'in   getting 

lots  of  change. 


Besides  —  my  prospects  —  don't  you  know 
that  people  won't  employ 

A  man  that  wrongs  his  manliness  by  laugh 
ing  like  a  boy  ? 

And  suspect  the  azure  blossom  that  unfolds 
upon  a  shoot, 

As  if  wisdom's  old  potato  could  not  flourish 
at  its  root  ? 

It 's  a   very  fine    reflection,  when   you  're 

etching  out  a  smile 
On   a   copperplate     of     faces    that    would 

stretch  at  least  a  mile, 
That,  what  with  sneers  from  enemies  and 

cheapening  shrugs  of  friends, 
It  will    cost  you  all   the    earnings   that    a 

month  of  labor  lends  ! 

It 's  a  vastly  pleasing  prospect,  when  you  're 
screwing  out  a  laugh, 

That  your  very  next  year's  income  is  dimin 
ished  by  a  half, 

And  a  little  boy  trips  barefoot  that  Pegasus 
may  go, 

And  the  baby's  milk  is  watered  that  your 
Helicon  may  How  ! 

No  ;  —  the  joke  has  been  a  good  one,  —  but 
I  'm  getting  fond  of  quiet, 

And  I  don't  like  deviations  from  my  cus 
tomary  diet  ; 

So  I  think  1  will  not  go  witli  you  to  hear 
the  toasts  and  speeches, 

But  stick  to  old  Montgomery  Place,  and 
have  some  pig  and  peaches. 

The  fat  man  answered  :  Shut  your  mouth, 

and  hear  the  genuine  creed  ; 
The  true  essentials  of  a  feast  are  only  fun 

and  feed  ; 
The  force  that  wheels  the  planets  round 

delights  in  spinning  tops, 
And  that  young  earthquake  t'  other  day 

was  great  at  shaking  props. 

I  tell  you  what,  philosopher,  if  all  the  lon 
gest  heads 

That  ever  knocked  their  sinciputs  in  stretch 
ing  on  their  beds 

Were  round  one  great  mahogany,  I  'd  beat 
those  fine  old  folks 

With  twenty  dishes,  twenty  fools,  and 
twenty  clever  jokes  ! 


POEMS    PUBLISHED    BETWEEN    1837    AND    1848 


Why,  if  Columbus  should  be  there,  the 
company  would  beg 

He  'd  show  that  little  trick  of  his  of  bal 
ancing  the  egg  ! 

Milton  to  Stilton  would  give  in,  and  Solo 
mon  to  Salmon, 

And  Roger  Bacon  be  a  bore,  and  Francis 
Bacon  gammon  ! 

And  as  for  all  the  "  patronage  "  of  all  the 

clowns  and  boors 
That  squint  their  little  narrow  eyes  at  any 

freak  of  yours, 
Do  leave  them  to  your  prosier  friends,  — 

such  fellows  ought  to  die 
When  rhubarb  is  so  very  scarce  and  ipecac 

so  high  ! 

And  so  I  come,  —  like  Lochiuvar,  to  tread 
a  single  measure, — 

To  purchase  with  a  loaf  of  bread  a  sugar 
plum  of  pleasure, 

To  enter  for  the  cup  of  glass  that  's  run 
for  after  dinner, 

Which  yields  a  single  sparkling  draught, 
then  breaks  and  cuts  the  winner. 

Ah,  that's  the  way  delusion  comes,  —  a 
glass  of  old  Madeira, 

A  pair  of  visual  diaphragms  revolved  by 
Jane  or  Sarah, 

And  down  go  vows  and  promises  without 
the  slightest  question 

If  eating  words  won't  compromise  the  or 
gans  of  digestion! 

And  yet,  among  my  native  shades,  beside 

my  nursing  mother, 
Where  every  stranger  seems  a  friend,  and 

every  friend  a  brother, 
I  feel  the  old  convivial  glow  (unaided)  o'er 

me  stealing, — 
The     warm,     champagny,     old-particular, 

brandy-punchy  feeling. 

We  're  all  alike ;  —  Vesuvius  flings  the  sco- 

rise  from  his  fountain, 
But  down  they  come  in  volleying  rain  back 

to  the  burning  mountain; 
We  leave,  like  those  volcanic  stones,  our 

precious  Alma  Mater, 
But  will  keep  dropping  in  again  to  see  the 

dear  old  crater. 


VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER 

PHI   BETA   KAPPA   SOCIETY,  1844 

I  WAS  thinking  last  night,  as  I  sat  in  the 

cars, 
With  the  charmingest  prospect  of  cinders 

and  stars, 
Next  Thursday  is  —  bless  me!  —  how  hard 

it  will  be, 
If  that  cannibal  president  calls  upon  me  ! 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  that  he  will  not 

devour, 
From  a  tutor  in  seed   to   a   freshman   in 

flower  ; 
No  sage  is  too  gray,  and  no  youth  is  too 

green, 
And  you  can't  be  too  plump,  though  you  're 

never  too  lean. 

While  others  enlarge  on  the  boiled  and  the 

roast, 

He  serves  a  raw  clergyman  up  with  a  toast, 
Or  catches  some  doctor,  quite  tender  and 

young, 
And  basely  insists  on  a  bit  of  his  tongue. 

Poor   victim,   prepared    for    his    classical 

spit, 
With  a  stuffing  of  praise  and  a  basting  of 

wit, 
You  may  twitch  at  your  collar  and  wrinkle 

your  brow, 
But  you  're  up  on  your  legs,  and  you  're  in 

for  it  now. 

Oh,  think  of  your  friends,  —  they  are  wait 
ing  to  hear 

These  jokes  that  are  thought  so  remark 
ably  queer; 

And  all  the  Jack  Horners  of  metrical  buns 

Are  prying  and  fingering  to  pick  out  the 
puns. 

Those    thoughts  which,  like  chickens,  will 

always  thrive  best 
When  reared  by  the  heat  of   the  natural 

nest, 
Will  perish  if  hatched  from  their  embryo 

dream 
In  the  mist  and  the  glow  of  convivial  steam. 


A    MODEST   REQUEST 


37 


Oh  pardon  me,  then,  if  I  meekly  retire, 
With  a  very  small  flash  of  ethereal  fire; 
No  rubbing  will  kindle  your  Lucifer 

match, 
If   the  Jiz  does  not  follow   the  primitive 

scratch. 

Dear  friends,  who  are  listening  so  sweetly 

the  while, 
With   your   lips    double-reefed  in  a  snug 

little  smile, 
I  leave  you  two  fables,  both  drawn  from 

the  deep, — 
The  shells  you  can  drop,  but  the  pearls  you 

may  keep. 

The   fish   called   the    FLOUNDER,   perhaps 

you  may  know, 
Has    one    side    for   use    and   another   for 

show; 

One  side  for  the  public,  a  delicate  brown, 
And  one  that  is  white,    which  he  always 

keeps  down. 

A    very   young    flounder,  the    flattest    of 

flats, 
(And   they  're  none  of  them  thicker  than 

opera  hats,) 
Was   speaking   more    freely    than  charity 

taught 
Of  a  friend  and  relation  that  just  had  been 

caught. 

"  My !  what  an  exposure  !  just  see  what  a 

sight ! 
I  blush  for  my  race,  —  he  is  showing  his 

white  ! 
Such  spinning  and  wriggling,  —  why,  what 

does  he  wish  ? 
How  painfully  small  to  respectable  fish  !  " 

Then  said  an  old  SCULPIN,  —  "  My  free 
dom  excuse, 

You  're  playing  the  cobbler  with  holes  in 
your  shoes; 

Your  brown  side  is  up, — but  just  wait  till 
you  're  tried 

And  you  '11  find  that  all  flounders  are 
white  on  one  side." 

There  's  a  slice  near  the  PICKEREL'S  pecto 
ral  fins, 

Where  the  thorax  leaves  off  and  the  venter 
begins, 


Which  his  brother,  survivor  of  fish-hooks 

and  lines, 
Though  fond  of  his  family,  never  declines. 

He  loves  his  relations;  he  feels  they  '11  be 

missed ; 

But  that  one  little  tidbit  he  cannot  resist; 
So  your  bait  may  be  swallowed,  no  matter 

how  fast, 
For  you  catch  your  next  fish  with  a  piece 

of  the  last. 

And  thus,  O  survivor,  whose  merciless 
fate 

Is  to  take  the  next  hook  with  the  presi 
dent's  bait, 

You  are  lost  while  you  snatch  from  the 
end  of  his  line 

The  morsel  he  rent  from  this  bosom  of 
mine  ! 


A    MODEST    REQUEST 

COMPLIED  WITH  AFTER  THE  DINNER  AT 
PRESIDENT  EVERETT'S  INAUGURATION 

SCENE,  —  a  back  parlor  in  a  certain  square, 
Or   court,    or    lane,  —  in  short,   no    matter 

where ; 
Time,  —  early    morning,    dear    to    simple 

souls 
Who  love  its  sunshine  and  its  fresh-baked 

rolls; 

Persons,  —  take  pity  on  this  telltale  blush, 
That,  like  the  ^Ethiop,  whispers,  "Hush, 

oh  hush  !  " 

Delightful  scene  !  where  smiling  comfort 
broods, 

Xor  business  frets,  nor  anxious  care  in 
trudes  ; 

0  si  sic  omnia  !  were  it  ever  so  ! 

But  what  is  stable  in  this  world  below  ? 

^^edio  efonte,  —  Virtue  has  her  faults, — 

The  clearest  fountains  taste  of  Epsom 
salts; 

We  snatch  the  cup  and  lift  to  drain  it 
dry,  — 

Its  central  dimple  holds  a  drowning  fly  ! 

Strong  is  the  pine  by  Maine's  ambrosial 
streams, 

But  stronger  augers  pierce  its  thickest 
beams; 


POEMS    PUBLISHED   BETWEEN    1837    AND    1848 


No  iron  gate,  no  spiked  and  panelled  door, 
Can  keep  out  death,  the  postman,  or  the 

bore. 
Oh  for  a  world  where  peace  and  silence 

reign, 

And  blunted  dulness  terebrates  in  vain  ! 
—  The  door-bell  jingles,  —  enter   Richard 

Fox, 
And  takes  this  letter  from  his  leathern  box. 

"  Dear  Sir,  — 

In  writing  on  a  former  day, 
One  little  matter  I  forgot  to  say; 
I  now  inform  you  in  a  single  line, 
On  Thursday  next  our  purpose  is  to  dine. 
The  act  of  feeding,  as  you  understand, 
Is  but  a  fraction  of  the  work  in  hand; 
Its  nobler  half  is  that  ethereal  meat 
The  papers  call '  the  intellectual  treat; ' 
Songs,  speeches,  toasts,  around  the  festive 

board 
Drowned  in  the  juice  the  College  pumps 

afford; 
For   only   water    flanks    our    knives    and 

forks, 
So,   sink   or  float,   we   swim   without   the 

corks. 

Yours  is  the  art,  by  native  genius  taught, 
To  clothe  in  eloquence  the  naked  thought; 
Yours  is  the  skill  its  music  to  prolong 
Through  the  sweet  effluence  of  mellifluous 

song; 

Yours  the  quaint  trick  to  cram  the  pithy  line 
That  cracks  so  crisply  over  bubbling  wine  ; 
And  since  success  your  various   gifts  at 
tends, 
We  —  that  is,  I   and   all   your  numerous 

friends  — 
Expect    from    you  —  your    single    self    a 

host  — 

A  speech,  a  song,  excuse  me,  and  a  toast; 
Nay,  not  to  haggle  on  so  small  a  claim, 
A  few  of  each,  or  several  of  the  same. 
(Signed),     Yours,  most  truly,  — 


No!  my  sight  must  fail,  — 
If  that  ain't  Judas  on  the  largest  scale  ! 
Well,  this  is  modest;  —  nothing  else  than 

that  ? 
My  coat  ?  my  boots  ?  my  pantaloons  ?  my 

hat  ? 
My  stick  ?  my  gloves  ?  as  well  as  all  my 

wits, 
Learning    and     linen,  —  everything     that 

fits! 


Jack,  said  my  lady,  is  it  grog  you  '11  try, 
Or   punch,    or   toddy,    if    perhaps   you  're 

dry  ? 

Ah,  said  the  sailor,  though  I  can't  refuse, 
You   know,  my   lady,    't  ain't   for    me   to 

choose  ; 

I  '11  take  the  grog  to  finish  off  my  lunch, 
And  drink  the  toddy  while  you  mix   the 

punch. 


THE  SPEECH.     (The  speaker,  rising  to  be 

seen, 

Looks  very  red,  because  so  very  green.) 
I  rise  —  I  rise  —  with  unaffected  fear, 
(Louder  !  —  speak    louder  !  —  who     the 

deuce  can  hear  ?) 

I   rise  —  I   said  —  with    undisguised   dis 
may — 

—  Such  are  my  feelings  as  I  rise,  I  say  ! 
Quite   unprepared    to   face    this     learned 

throng, 

Already  gorged  with  eloquence  and  song  ; 
Around   my   view  are   ranged    on   either 

hand 

The  genius,  wisdom,  virtue  of  the  land  ; 
"  Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have 

swayed  " 

Close  at  my  elbow  stir  their  lemonade; 
Would  you  like  Homer  learn  to  write  and 

speak, 
That  bench  is  groaning  with  its  weight  of 

Greek; 

Behold  the  naturalist  who  in  his  teens 
Found  six  new  species  in  a  dish  of  greens; 
And  lo,  the  master  in  a  statelier  walk, 
Whose  annual   ciphering   takes   a   ton   of 

chalk; 
And   there   the  linguist,  who  by  common 

roots 
Thro'  all  their  nurseries  tracks  old  Noah's 

shoots,  — 
How   Shem's  proud    children   reared   the 

Assyrian  piles, 
While  Ham's  were  scattered  through  the 

Sandwich  Isles  ! 

—  Fired   at   the  thought  of  all  the  present 

shows, 

My  kindling  fancy  down  the  future  flows  : 
I  see  the  glory  of  the  coming  days 
O'er   Time's   horizon   shoot   its  streaming 

rays  ; 
Near  and  more  near  the  radiant  morning 

draws 
In  living  lustre  (rapturous  applause) ; 


A   MODEST   REQUEST 


39 


From  east  to  west  the  blazing-  heralds  run, 
Loosed  from  the  chariot  of  the  ascending 

sun, 

Through  the  long  vista  of  uncounted  years 
In   cloudless  splendor   (three    tremendous 

cheers). 

My  eye  prophetic,  as  the  depths  unfold, 
Sees  a  new  advent  of  the  age  of  gold; 
AVhile  o'er  the  scene  new  generations  press, 
New  heroes  rise  the  coming'  time  to  bless,  — 
Not  such  as  Homer's,  who,  we  read  in  Pope, 
Dined   without    forks  and  never  heard  of 

soap, — 
Not  such  as  May  to  Maiiborough  Chapel 

brings, 

Lean,  hungry,  savage,  auti-everythings, 
Copies  of  Luther  in  the  pasteboard  style, — 
But  genuine  articles,  the  true  Carlyle  ; 
While    far  on  high  the  blazing    orb    shall 

shed 

Its  central  light  on  Harvard's  holy  head, 
And  learning's  ensigns  ever  float  unfurled 
Here  in  the  focus  of  the  new-born  world  ! 
The  speaker  stops,  and,    trampling  down 

the  pause, 

Roars  through  the  hall  the  thunder  of  ap 
plause, 

One  stormy  gust  of  long-suspended  Ahs  ! 
One  whirlwind  chaos  of  insane  Hurrahs  ! 


THE  SONG.     But    this  demands  a  briefer 

line,  — 

A  shorter  muse,  and  not  the  old  long  Nine; 
Long  metre  answers  for  a  common  song, 
Though  common  metre    does    not   answer 

long. 

She  came  beneath  the  forest  dome 

To  seek  its  peaceful  shade, 
An  exile  from  her  ancient  home, 

A  poor,  forsaken  maid ; 
No  banner,  flaunting  high  above, 

No  blazoned  cross,  she  bore  ; 
One  holy  book  of  light  and  love 

Was  all  her  worldly  store. 

The  dark  brown  shadows  passed  away, 

And  wider  spread  the  green, 
And  where  the  savage  used  to  stray 

The  rising  mart  was  seen  ; 
So,  when  the  laden  winds  had  brought 

Their  showers  of  golden  rain, 
Her  lap  some  precious  gleanings  caught, 

Like  Ruth's  amid  the  grain. 


But  wrath  soon  gathered  uncontrolled 

Among  the  baser  churls, 
To  see  her  ankles  red  with  gold, 

Her  forehead  white  with  pearls. 
"  Who  gave  to  thee  the  glittering  bands 

That  lace  thine  azure  veins  ? 
Who   bade    thee    lift   those    snow-white 

hands 
We  bound  in  gilded  chains  ?  " 

'•  These  are  the  gems  my  children  gave," 

The  stately  dame  replied; 
"  The  wise,  the  gentle,  and  the  brave, 

I  nurtured  at  my  side. 
If  envy  still  your  bosom  stings, 
Take  back  their  rims  of  gold; 
My  sons  will  melt  their  wedding-rings, 
And  give  a  hundred-fold  !  " 


THE  TOAST.  Oh  tell  me,  ye  who  thought 
less  ask 

Exhausted  nature  for  a  threefold  task, 

In  wit  or  pathos  if  one  share  remains, 

A  safe  investment  for  an  ounce  of  brains  ! 

Hard  is  the  job  to  launch  the  desperate 
pun, 

A  pun-job  dangerous  as  the  Indian  one. 

Turned  by  the  current  of  some  stronger 
wit 

Back  from  the  object  that  vou  mean  to 
hit, 

Like  the  strange  missile  which  the  Austra 
lian  throws, 

Your  verbal  boomerang  slaps  you  on  the 
nose. 

One  vague  inflection  spoils  the  whole  with 
doubt, 

One  trivial  letter  ruins  all,  left  out; 

A  knot  can  choke  a  felon  into  clay, 

A  not  will  save  him,  spelt  without  the  k; 

The  smallest  word  has  some  unguarded 
spot, 

And  danger  lurks  in  i  without  a  dot. 

Thus  great   Achilles,  who  had   shown   his 

zeal 

In  healing  wounds,  died  of  a  wounded  heel; 
Unhappy    chief,    who,   when    in    childhood 

doused, 
Had   saved  his  bacon    had   his    feet  been 

soused  ! 

Accursed  heel  that  killed  a  hero  stout ! 
Oh,  had  your  mother  known  that  you  were 

out, 


POEMS   PUBLISHED   BETWEEN    1837    AND    1848 


Death  had  not  entered  at  the  trifling  part 
That  still  defies  the  small  chirurgeon's  art 
With   corns  and  bunions,  —  not   the  glo 
rious  John, 
Who  wrote  the  book  we  all  have  pondered 

on, 

But  other  bunions,  bound  in  fleecy  hose, 
To  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  unrelenting  foes  ! 


A  HEALTH,  uumingled  with  the  reveller's 
wine, 

To  him  whose  title  is  indeed  divine; 

Truth's  sleepless  watchman  on  her  mid 
night  tower, 

Whose  lamp  burns  brightest  when  the 
tempests  lower. 

On,  who  can  tell  with  what  a  leaden  flight 

Drag  the  long  watches  of  his  weary  night, 

While  at  his  feet  the  hoarse  and  blinding 
gale 

Strews  the  torn  wreck  and  bursts  the 
fragile  sail, 

When  stars  have  faded,  when  the  wave  is 
dark, 

When  rocks  and  sands  embrace  the  foun 
dering  bark  ! 

But  still  he  pleads  with  unavailing  cry, 

Behold  the  light,  O  wanderer,  look  or  die  ! 

A  health,  fair  Themis  !     Would   the    en 
chanted  vine 
Wreathed  its  green  tendrils  round  this  cup 

of  thine  ! 
If    Learning's    radiance   fill   thy   modern 

court, 
Its    glorious    sunshine     streams    through 

Blackstone's  port  ! 
Lawyers    are    thirsty,    and    their    clients 

too,— 

Witness  at  least,  if  memory  serve  me  true, 
Those  old  tribunals,  famed  for  dusty  suits, 
Where  men  sought  justice  ere  they  brushed 

their  boots; 
And  what  can  match,  to  solve  a  learned 

doubt, 
The  warmth  within  that  comes  from  "  cold 

without "  ? 

Health  to  the  art  whose  glory  is  to  give 
The   crowning  boon  that  makes  it  life  to 

live. 
Ask    not    her    home;  —  the    rock    where 

nature  flings 
Her  arctic  lichen,  last  of  living  things ; 


The   gardens,   fragrant   with   the    orient's 

balm, 
From   the   low   jasmine   to    the    star-like 

palm, 

Hail  her  as  mistress  o'er  the  distant  waves, 
And  yield  their  tribute  to  her  wandering 

slaves. 

Wherever,  moistening  the  ungrateful  soil, 
The  tear   of   suffering  tracks  the  path  of 

toil, 

There,  in  the  anguish  of  his  fevered  hours, 
Her    gracious    finger    points    to    healing 

flowers ; 

Where  the  lost  felon  steals  away  to  die, 
Her   soft   hand   waves   before  his  closing 

eye; 
Where   hunted   misery   finds   his    darkest 

lair, 
The   midnight   taper   shows   her  kneeling 

there! 
VIRTUE,  —  the  guide  that  men  and  nations 

own; 
And  LAW,  —  the  bulwark  that  protects  her 

throne ; 
And  HEALTH,  —  to  all  its  happiest  charm 

that  lends; 
These  and  their  servants,  man's   untiring 

friends : 
Pour  the  bright  lymph  that  Heaven  itself 

lets  fall, 
In  one  fair  bumper  let  us  toast  them  all ! 


THE  PARTING  WORD 

I  MUST  leave  thee,  lady  sweet ! 
Months  shall  waste  before  we  meet ; 
Winds  are  fair  and  sails  are  spread, 
Anchors  leave  their  ocean  bed ; 
Ere  this  shining  day  grow  dark, 
Skies  shall  gird  my  shoreless  bark. 
Through  thy  tears,  O  lady  mine, 
Read  thy  lover's  parting  line. 

When  the  first  sad  sun  shall  set, 
Thou  shalt  tear  thy  locks  of  jet; 
When  the  morning  star  shall  rise, 
Thou  shalt  wake  with  weeping  eyes; 
When  the  second  sun  goes  down, 
Thou  more  tranquil  shalt  be  grown, 
Taught  too  well  that  wild  despair 
Dims  thine  eyes  and  spoils  thy  hair. 

All  the  first  unquiet  week 

Thou  shalt  wear  a  smileless  cheek; 


A   SONG   OF   OTHER   DAYS 


41 


Jii  the  first  month's  second  half 
Thou  slialt  once  attempt  to  laugh ; 
Then  in  Pickwick  thou  slialt  dip, 
Slightly  puckering  round  the  lip, 
Till  at  last,  in  sorrow's  spite, 
Samuel  makes  thee  laugh  outright. 

While  the  first  seven  mornings  last, 
Round  thy  chamber  bolted  fast 
Many  a  youth  shall  fume  and  pout, 

"  Hang  the  girl,  she  's  always  out!  " 
While  the  second  week  goes  round, 
Vainly  shall  they  ring  and  pound  ; 
When  the  third  week  shall  begin, 

"Martha,  let  the  creature  in." 

Xow  once  more  the  flattering  throng 
Round  thee  flock  with  smile  and  song 
But  thy  lips,  un weaned  as  yet, 
Lisp,  "Oh,  how  can  I  forget!  " 
Men  and  devils  both  contrive 
Traps  for  catching  o-ii-ls  alive; 
Eve  was  duped,  and  Helen  kissed,  — 
How,  oh  how,  can  you  resist  ? 

First  be  careful  of  your  fan, 
Trust  it  not  to  youth  or  man; 
Love  has  filled  a  pirate's  sail 
Often  with  its  perfumed  gale. 
Mind  your  kerchief  most  of  all, 
Fingers  touch  when  kerchiefs  fall; 
Shorter  ell  than  mercers  clip 
Is  the  space  from  hand  to  lip. 

Trust  not  such  as  talk  in  tropes, 
Full  of  pistols,  daggers,  ropes; 
All  the  hemp  that  Russia  bears 
Scarce  would  answer  lovers'  prayers; 
Never  thread  was  spun  so  line, 
Xever  spider  stretched  the  line, 
Would  not  hold  the  lovers  true 
That  would  really  swing  for  you. 

Fiercely  some  shall  storm  and  swear, 
Beating  breasts  in  black  despair; 
Others  murmur  with  a  sigh, 
You  must  melt,  or  they  will  die: 
Painted  words  on  empty  lies, 
Grubs  with  wings  like  butterflies; 
Let  them  die,  and  welcome,  too; 
Pray  what  better  could  they  do  ? 

Fare  thee  well:  if  years  efface 
From  thy  heart  love's  burning  trace, 


Keep,  oh  keep  that  hallowed  seat 
From  the  tread  of  vulgar  feet; 
If  the  blue  lips  of  the  sea 
Wait  with  icy  kiss  for  me, 
Let  not  thine  forget  the  vow, 
Sealed  how  often,  Love,  as  now. 

A   SOXG  OF   OTHER  DAYS 

As  o'er  the  glacier's  frozen  sheet 

Breathes  soft  the  Alpine  rose, 
So  through  life's  desert  springing  sweet 

The  flower  of  friendship  grows; 
And  as  where'er  the  roses  grow 

Some  rain  or  dew  descends, 
'T  is  nature's  law  that  wine  should  flow 
To  wet  the  lips  of  friends. 

Then  once  again,  before  we  part, 

My  empty  glass  shall  ring; 
And  he  that  has  the  warmest  heart 
Shall  loudest  laugh  and  sing. 

They  say  we  were  not  born  to  eat; 

But  gray-haired  sages  think 
It  means,  Be  moderate  in  your  meat, 

And  partly  live  to  drink. 
For  baser  tribes  the  rivers  How 

That  know  not  wine  or  song  ; 
Man  wants  but  little  drink  below, 

But  wants  that  little  strong. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

If  one  bright  drop  is  like  the  gem 

That  decks  a  monarch's  crown, 
One  goblet  holds  a  diadem 

Of  rubies  melted  down  ! 
A  fig  for  Csesar's  blazing  brow, 

But,  like  the  Egyptian  queen, 
Bid  each  dissolving  jewel  glow 

My  thirsty  lips  between. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

The  Grecian's  mound,  the  Roman's  urn, 

Are  silent  when  we  call, 
Yet  still  the  purple  grapes  return 

To  cluster  on  the  wall  ; 
It  was  a  bright  Immortal's  head 

Thev  circled  with  the  vine, 
And  o'er  their  best  and  bravest  dead 

They  poured  the  dark-red  wine. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

Methinks  o'er  every  sparkling  glass 
Young  Eros  waves  his  wings, 


42 


POEMS    PUBLISHED    BETWEEN    1837    AND    1848 


And  echoes  o'er  its  dimples  pass 
From  dead  Anacreon's  strings  ; 

And,  tossing  round  its  beaded  brim 
Their  locks  of  floating  gold, 

With  bacchant  dance  and  choral  hymn 
Return  the  nymphs  of  old. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

A  welcome  then  to  joy  and  mirth, 

From  hearts  as  fresh  as  ours, 
To  scatter  o'er  the  dust  of  earth 

Their  sweetly  mingled  flowers; 
'T  is  Wisdom's  self  the  cup  that  fills 

In  spite  of  Folly's  frown, 
And  Nature,  from  her  vine-clad  hills, 
That  rains  her  life-blood  down  ! 
Then  once  again,  before  we  part, 

My  empty  glass  shall  ring; 
And  he  that  has  the  warmest  heart 
Shall  loudest  laugh  and  sing. 


SONG 

FOR  A  TEMPERANCE  DINNER  TO  WHICH 
LADIES  WERE  INVITED  (NEW  YORK 
MERCANTILE  LIBRARY  ASSOCIATION, 
NOVEMBER,  1842) 

[In  the  Professor  Dr.  Holmes  makes  the  fol 
lowing-  reference  to  this  song :  — 

"I  once  wrote  a  song-  about  wine,  in 
which  I  spoke  so  warmly  of  it,  that  I  was 
afraid  some  would  think  it  was  written  inter 
pocula  ;  whereas  it  was  composed  in  the  bosom 
of  my  family,  under  the  most  tranquillizing' 
domestic  influences. 

"  —  The  divinity  student  turned  towards  me, 
looking  mischievous.  —  Can  you  tell  me,  —  he 
said,  —  who  wrote  a  song  for  a  temperance 
celebration  once,  of  which  the  following  is  a 
verse  ?  — 

"  Alas  for  the  loved  one,  too  gentle  and  fair 
The  joys  of  the  banquet  to  chasten  and  share  ! 
Her  eye  lost  its  light  that  his  goblet  might  shine, 
And  the  rose  of  her  cheek  was  dissolved  in  his  wine  I 

I  did,  —  I  answered.  — What  are  you  going  to 
do  about  it  ?  —  I  will  tell  you  another  line  I 
wrote  long  ago  :  — 

"Don't  be  '  consistent,'— but  be  simply  true."] 

A  HEALTH  to  dear  woman  !     She  bids  us 

untwine, 
From  the  cup  it  encircles,  the  fast-clinging 

vine; 


But  her  cheek  in  its  crystal  with  pleasure 

will  glow, 
And  mirror   its  bloom  in  the  bright  wave 

below. 

A  health  to  sweet  woman  !     The  days  are 

no  more 
When  she  watched   for  her  lord   till   the 

revel  was  o'er, 
And     smoothed     the    white     pillow,    and 

blushed  when  he  came, 
As  she  pressed  her  cold  lips  on  his  forehead 

of  flame. 

Alas  for  the  loved  one  !  too  spotless  and  fair 
The  joys  of  his   banquet   to   chasten   and 

share ; 
Her  eye  lost  its  light  that  his  goblet  might 

shine, 
And  the  rose  of  her  cheek  was  dissolved  in 

his  wine. 

Joy  smiles  in  the  fountain,  health  flows  in 
the  rills, 

As  their  ribbons  of  silver  unwind  from  the 
hills; 

They  breathe  not  the  mist  of  the  baccha 
nal's  dream, 

But  the  lilies  of  innocence  float  on  their 
stream. 

Then  a  health  and  a  welcome  to  woman 

once  more  ! 
She  brings  us  a  passport  that  laughs  at  our 

door  ; 
It  is  written  on  crimson,  —  its  letters  are 

pearls,  — 
It  is  countersigned  Nature.  —  So,  room  for 

the  Girls  ! 


A  SENTIMENT 

THE  pledge  of  Friendship  !  it  is  still  di 
vine, 

Though  watery  floods  have  quenched  its 
burning  wine ; 

Whatever  vase  the  sacred  drops  may  hold, 

The  gourd,  the  shell,  the  cup  of  beaten 
gold, 

Around  its  brim  the  hand  of  Nature 
throws 

A  garland  sweeter  than  the  banquet's  rose. 

Bright  are  the  blushes  of  the  vine-wreathed 
bowl, 


A   RHYMED    LESSON 


43 


Warm    with   the    sunshine    of   Anacreon's 

soul, 
But   dearer   memories   gild    the   tasteless 

wave 

That  fainting  Sidney  perished  as  he  gave. 
'T  is  the  heart's  current  lends  the  cup  its 

glow, 
Whate'er  the  fountain  whence  the  draught 

may  flow,  — 
The  diamond  dew-drops  sparkling  through 

the  sand, 

Scooped  by  the  Arab  in  his  sunburnt  hand, 
Or    the    dark    streamlet    oozing    from  the 

snow, 
Where  creep    and  crouch  the    shuddering 

Esquimaux; 

Ay,  in  the  stream  that,  ere  again  we  meet, 
Shall  burst  the  pavement,  glistening  at  our 

feet, 

And,  stealing  silent  from  its  leafy  hills, 
Thread  all    our    alleys  with    its    thousand 

rills,— 
In  each  pale  draught  if  generous  feeling 

blend, 
And  o'er  the  goblet  friend  shall  smile  on 

friend, 
Even    cold   Cochituate    every    heart   shall 

warm, 
And  o-cnial  Nature  still  defv  reform  ! 


A  RHYMED   LESSON 
(URANIA) 

This  poem  was  delivered  before  the  Boston 
Mercantile  Library  Association,  October  14, 
1840. 

YES,  dear  Enchantress,  —  wandering  far 

and  long, 
In  realms  unperfumed    by  the    breath    of 

song, 
Where  flowers  ill-flavored  shed  their  sweets 

around, 
And    bitterest   roots    invade    the  ungcnial 

ground, 
Whose  gems  are  crystals  from  the  Epsom 

mine, 

Whose  vineyards  flow  with  antimonial  wine, 
Whose  gates  admit  no  mirthful  feature  in, 
Save  one  gaunt  mocker,  the  Sardonic  grin, 
Whose  pangs  are  real,  not  the  woes  of 

rhyme 
That  blue-eyed  misses  warble  out  of  time;  — 


Truant,  not  recreant  to  thy  sacred  claim, 
Older  by  reckoning,  but  in  heart  the  same, 
Freed  for  a  moment  from  the  chains   of 

toil, 

I  tread  once  more  thy  consecrated  soil; 
Here  at  thy  feet  my  old  allegiance  own, 
Thy  subject  still,  and  loyal  to  thy  throne  ! 

My  dazzled  glance  explores  the  crowded 

hall ; 

Alas,  how  vain  to  hope  the  smiles  of  all ! 
I  know   my   audience.     All  the    gay   and 

young 

Love  the  light  antics  of  a  playful  tongue; 
And   these,  remembering  some  expansive 

line 

My  lips  let  loose  among  the  nuts  and  wine, 
Are  all  impatience  till  the  opening  pun 
Proclaims  the  witty  shamnght  is  begun. 
Two  fifths  at  least,  if  not  the  total  half, 
Have    come    infuriate    for   an   earthquake 

laugh; 

I  know  full  well  what  alderman  has  tied 
His  red  bandanna  tight  about  his  side; 
I  see  the  mother,  who,  aware  that  boys 
Perform    their    laughter    with    superfluous 

noise, 

Beside  her  kerchief  brought  an  extra  one 
To  stop  the  explosions  of  her  bursting  son; 
I  know  a  tailor,  once  a  friend  of  mine, 
Expects  great  doings  in  the  button  line, — 
For  mirth's    concussions    rip    the   outward 

case, 

And  plant  the  stitches  in  a  tenderer  place. 
I   know  my  audience,  —  these  shall    have 

their  due; 
A  smile  awaits  them  ere  my  song  is  through! 

I  know  myself.     Not  servile  for  applause, 
My  Muse  permits  no  deprecating  clause; 
Modest  or  vain,  she  will  not  be  denied 
One  bold  confession  due  to  honest  pride; 
And  well  she  knows  the  drooping  veil  of  song 
Shall  save  her  boldness  from  the  caviller's 


Her  sweeter  voice  the  Heavenly  Maid  im 
parts 

To  tell  the  secrets  of  our  aching  hearts: 

For  this,  a  suppliant,  captive,  prostrate, 
bound, 

She  kneels  imploring  at  the  feet  of  sound; 

For  this,  convulsed  in  thought's  maternal 
pains, 

She  loads  her  arms  with  rhyme's  resound 
ing  chains; 


44 


POEMS   PUBLISHED   BETWEEN    1837   AND    1848 


Faint  though  the  music  of  her  fetters  be, 
It  lends  one   charm, —  her  lips   are   ever 
free  ! 

Think  not   I   come,  in   manhood's  fiery 

noon, 

To  steal  his  laurels  from  the  stage  buffoon; 
His  sword  of  lath  the  harlequin  may  wield; 
Behold  the  star  upon  my  lifted  shield  ! 
Though  the   just   critic   pass   my  humble 

name, 
And  sweeter  lips  have  drained  the  cup  of 

fame, 
While  my  gay  stanza  pleased  the  banquet's 

lords, 

The  soul  within  was  tuned  to  deeper  chords! 
Say,  shall  my  arms,  in  other  conflicts  taught 
To  swing  aloft  the  ponderous  mace  of 

thought, 

Lift,  in  obedience  to  a  school-girl's  law, 
Mirth's  tinsel  wand  or  laughter's  tickling 

straw  ? 
Say,  shall  I  wound  with  satire's  rankling 

spear 

The  pure,  warm  hearts  that   bid  me  wel 
come  here  ? 
No!  while  I  wander  through   the  land  of 

dreams, 
To  strive  with  great  and  play  with  trifling 

themes, 

Let  some  kind  meaning  fill  the  varied  line. 
You  have  your  judgment;  will  you  trust  to 

mine  ? 


Between  two  breaths  what  crowded  mys 
teries  lie, — 

The  first   short   gasp,  the   last   and   long- 
drawn  sigh! 

Like  phantoms  painted  on  the  magic  slide, 
Forth  from  the   darkness  of   the  past  we 

glide, 

As  living  shadows  for  a  moment  seen 
In  airy  pageant  on  the  eternal  screen, 
Traced  by  a  ray  from  one  unchanging 

flame, 

Then   seek  the  dust  and   stillness  whence 
we  came. 

But   whence    and    why,   our   trembling 

souls  inquire, 
Caught  these  dim  visions  their  awakening 

fire? 
Oh,  who  forgets  when  first   the   piercing 

thought 


Through    childhood's   musings    found    its 

way  unsought  ? 
I   AM;  —  I    LIVE.     The   mystery   and  the 

fear 
When    the    dread    question,    WHAT    HAS 

BROUGHT  ME  HERE  ? 

Burst  through  life's  twilight,  as  before  the 

sun 
Roll  the  deep  thunders  of  the  morning  gun ! 

Are  angel  faces,  silent  and  serene, 
Bent  on  the  conflicts  of  this  little  scene, 
Whose    dream-like    efforts,   whose   unreal 

strife, 
Are  but  the  preludes  to  a  larger  life  ? 

Or  does  life's  summer  see  the  end  of  all, 

These  leaves  of  being  mouldering  as  they 
fall, 

As  the  old  poet  vaguely  used  to  deem, 

As  WESLEY  questioned  in  his  youthful 
dream  ? 

Oh,  could  such  mockery  reach  our  souls 
indeed, 

Give  back  the  Pharaohs'  or  the  Athenian's 
creed; 

Better  than  this  a  Heaven  of  man's  de 
vice,  — 

The  Indian's  sports,  the  Moslem's  para 
dise  ! 

Or  is  our  being's  only  end  and  aim 
To  add  new  glories  to  our  Maker's  name, 
As  the  poor  insect,  shrivelling  in  the  blaze, 
Lends   a   faint   sparkle   to    its    streaming 

rays  ? 
Does  earth  send  upward  to  the  Eternal's 

ear 

The  mingled  discords  of  her  jarring  sphere 
To  swell  his  anthem,  while  creation  rings 
With  notes  of  anguish  from  its  shattered 

strings  ? 

Is  it  for  this  the  immortal  Artist  means 
These  conscious,  throbbing,  agonized  ma 
chines  ? 

Dark  is  the  soul  whose  sullen  creed  can 

bind 
In   chains   like    these    the    all-embracing 

Mind ; 

No!  two-faced  bigot,  thou  dost  ill  reprove 
The  sensual,  selfish,  yet  benignant  Jove, 
And    praise    a   tyrant   throned   in   lonely 

pride, 
Who  loves  himself,  and  cares  for  naught 

beside ; 


A   RHYMED    LESSON 


45 


Who  gave  tliee,  summoned  from  primeval 

night, 

A  thousand  laws,  and  not  a  single  right,  — 
A  heart  to  feel,  and  quivering   nerves  to 

thrill, 
The    sense  of   wrong,    the  death  -  defying 

will; 
Who    girt    thy    senses    with   this    goodly 

frame, 

Its  earthly  glories  and  its  orbs  of  flame, 
Xot  for  thyself,  unworthy  of  a  thought, 
Poor  helpless  victim  of  a  life  unsought, 
But  all  for  him,  unchanging  and  supreme, 
The  heartless  centre  of  thy  frozen  scheme! 

Trust  not  the  teacher  with  his  lying 
scroll, 

Who  tears  the  charter  of  thy  shuddering 
soul; 

The  God  of  love,  who  gave  the  breath  that 
warms 

All  living  dust  in  all  its  varied  forms, 

Asks  not  the  tribute  of  a  world  like  this 

To  fill  the  measure  of  his  perfect  bliss. 

Though  winged  with  life  through  all  its 
radiant  shores, 

Creation  flowed  with  unexhausted  stores 

Cherub  and  seraph  had  not  yet  enjoyed; 

For  this  he  called  thee  from  the  quicken 
ing  void  ! 

Nor  this  alone  ;  a  larger  gift  was  thine, 

A  mightier  purpose  swelled  his  vast  de 
sign: 

Thought,  —  conscience,  —  will,  —  to  make 
them  all  thine  own, 

He  rent  a  pillar  from  the  eternal  throne  ! 

Made  in  his  image,  thou  must  nobly 
dare 

The  thorny  crown  of  sovereignty  to  share. 

With  eye  uplifted,  it  is  thine  to  view, 

From  thine  own  centre,  Heaven's  o'erarch- 
ing  blue; 

So  round  thy  heart  a  beaming  circle  lies 

Xo  fiend  can  blot,  no  hypocrite  disguise; 

From  all  its  orbs  one  cheering  voice  is 
heard, 

Full  to  thine  ear  it  bears  the  Father's 
word, 

Xow,  as  in  Eden  where  his  first-born  trod: 

"  Seek  thine  own  welfare,  true  to  man  and 

God!" 
Think  not  too  meanly  of  thy  low  estate; 

Thou  hast  a  choice;  to  choose  is  to  cre 
ate! 


Remember  whose  the  sacred  lips  that  tell, 
Angels  approve  thee   when  thy   choice  is 

well; 

Remember,  One,  a  judge  of  righteous  men, 
Swore  to  spare  Sodom  if  she  held  but  ten  ! 
Use  well  the  freedom  which  thy  Master 

gave, 
(Think'st  thou  that  Heaven  can  tolerate  a 

slave  ?  ) 

And  He  who  made  thee  to  be  just  and  true 
Will  bless  thee,  love  thee,  —  ay,  respect 

thee  too  ! 

Nature  lias  placed  thee  on  a  changeful 

tide, 
To   breast   its  waves,  but   not   without   a 

guide ; 

Yet,  as  the  needle  will  forget  its  aim, 
Jarred  by  the  fury  of  the  electric  flame, 
As  the  true  current  it  will  falsely  feel, 
Warped  from  its  axis  by  a  freight  of  steel; 
So  will  thy  CONSCIENCE  lose  its  balanced 

truth 

If  passion's  lightning  fall  upon  thy  youth, 
So  the  pure  effluence  quit  its  sacred  hold 
Girt  round  too  deeply  with  magnetic  gold. 
Go    to    yon    tower,    where    busy   science 

plies 
Her    vast    antenna?,    feeling    through   the 

skies: 

That  little  vernier  on  whose  slender  lines 
The  midnight  taper  trembles  as  it  shines, 
A  silent  index,  tracks  the  planets'  march 
In  all  their  wanderings  through  the 

ethereal  arch; 
Tells    through    the     mist     where     dazzled 

Mercury  burns, 
And  marks  the  spot  where  Uranus  returns. 

So,  till  by  wrong  or  negligence  effaced, 
The  living  index  which  thy  Maker  traced 
Repeats  the  line  each  starry  Virtue  draws 
Through    the    wide     circuit    of    creation's 

laws ; 

Still  tracks  unchanged  the  everlasting  ray 
Where  the  dark  shadows  of  temptation 

stray, 
But,    once    defaced,    forgets    the    orbs    of 

light, 

And   leaves    thee    wandering  o'er  the   ex 
panse  of  night. 

"  What  is  thy  creed  ?  "  a  hundred  lips 

inquire ; 

"  Thou  seekest  God  beneath  what  Christian 
spire  ?  " 


POEMS   PUBLISHED   BETWEEN  1837    AND    1848 


Nor  ask  they  idly,  for  uncounted  lies 
Float  upward  on  the  smoke  of  sacrifice; 
When  man's  first  incense  rose  above   the 

plain, 
Of    earth's  two   altars  one  was  built   by 

Cain  ! 
Uncursed  by  doubt,  our  earliest  creed 

we  take; 
We   love  the   precepts   for   the   teacher's 

sake; 
The    simple    lessons    which    the    nursery 

taught 
Fell   soft    and    stainless   on   the   buds    of 

thought, 

And  the  full  blossom  owes  its  fairest  hue 
To  those   sweet   tear-drops   of   affection's 

dew. 
Too  oft  the  light  that  led   our  earlier 

hours 
Fades   with   the    perfume   of    our    cradle 

flowers ; 
The  clear,  cold  question  chills  to   frozen 

doubt; 

Tired  of  beliefs,  we  dread  to  live  without: 
Oh  then,  if  Reason  waver  at  thy  side, 
Let  humbler  Memory  be  thy  gentle  guide; 
Go   to   thy   birthplace,  and,  if   faith   was 

there, 
Repeat   thy   father's    creed,  thy  mother's 

prayer! 
Faith  loves  to  lean  on  Time's  destroying 

arm, 
And  age,    like    distance,   lends   a   double 

charm ; 

In  dim  cathedrals,  dark  with  vaulted  gloom, 
What  holy  awe  invests  the  saintly  tomb  ! 
There  pride  will  bow,  and  anxious  care  ex 
pand, 

And  creeping  avarice  come  with  open  hand; 
The  gay  can  weep,  the  impious  can  adore, 
From   morn's    first    glimmerings    on    the 

chancel  floor 

Till  dying  sunset  sheds  his  crimson  stains 
Through  the  faint  halos  of  the  irised  panes. 
Yet    there    are    graves,   whose   rudely- 

shapen  sod 
Bears  the  fresh  footprints  where  the  sexton 

trod; 
Graves  where  the  verdure  has  not  dared  to 

shoot, 
Where  the  chance  wild-flower  has  not  fixed 

its  root, 
Whose  slumbering  tenants,  dead  without  a 

name, 
The  eternal  record  shall  at  length  proclaim 


Pure  as  the  holiest  in  the  long  array 
Of  hooded,  mitred,  or  tiaraed  clay! 

Come,  seek  the  air;  some  pictures  we 
may  gain 

Whose  passing  shadows  shall  not  be  in 
vain; 

Not  from  the  scenes  that  crowd  the  stran 
ger's  soil, 

Not  from  our  own  amidst  the  stir  of  toil, 

But  when  the  Sabbath  brings  its  kind  re 
lease, 

And  Care  lies  slumbering  on  the  lap  of 
Peace. 

The  air  is  hushed,  the  street  is  holy  ground ; 
Hark!     The  sweet  bells  renew  their  wel 
come  sound: 

As  one  by  one  awakes  each  silent  tongue, 
It  tells  the  turret  whence  its  voice  is  flung. 

The  Chapel,  last  of  sublunary  things 
That   stirs   our  echoes  with   the   name  of 

Kings, 
Whose  bell,  just  glistening  from  the  font 

and  forge, 
Rolled  its   proud  requiem  for   the  second 

George, 

Solemn  and  swelling,  as  of  old  it  rang, 
Flings  to  the  wind  its  deep,  sonorous  clang; 
The    simpler   pile,   that,   mindful    of    the 

hour 
When  Howe's  artillery  shook  its  half-built 

tower, 

Wears  on  its  bosom,  as  a  bride  might  do, 
The   iron  breastpin  which   the    "Rebels" 

threw, 
Wakes  the  sharp  echoes  with  the  quivering 

thrill 

Of  keen  vibrations,  tremulous  and  shrill; 
Aloft,  suspended  in  the  morning's  fire, 
Crash  the  vast  cymbals  from  the  Southern 

spire ; 

The  Giant,  standing  by  the  elm-clad  green, 
His  white  lance  lifted  o'er  the  silent  scene, 
Whirling  in  air  his  brazen  goblet  round, 
Swings  from  its  brim  the  swollen  floods  of 

sound ; 
While,  sad   with   memories   of   the  olden 

time, 

Throbs  from  his  tower  the  Northern  Min 
strel's  chime,  — 
Faint,  single  tones,  that  spell  their  ancient 

song, 
But  tears  still  follow  as  they  breathe  along. 


A    RHYMED    LESSON 


47 


Child  of  the  soil,  whom  fortune  sends  to 
range 

Where  man  and  nature,  faith  and  customs 
change, 

Borne  in  thy  memory,  each  familiar  toiie 

Mourns   on  the  winds  that  sigh    in  every 
zone. 

When  Ceylon    sweeps  thee  with  her  per 
fumed  breeze 

Through  the  warm  billows  of   the  Indian 
seas; 

When  —  ship  and  shadow  blended  both  in 
one  — 

Flames  o'er  thy  mast  the  equatorial  sun, 

From    sparkling    midnight     to     refulgent 
noon 

Thy  canvas  swelling  with  the  still  monsoon; 

When  through    thy  shrouds  the  wild  tor 
nado  sings, 

And  thy  poor  sea-bird  folds  her  tattered 
wings,  — 

Oft  will  delusion  o'er  thy  senses  steal, 

And  airy  echoes  ring  the  Sabbath  peal  ! 

Then,  dim  with  grateful  tears,  in  long  array 

Rise  the  fair  town,  the  island-studded  bay, 

Home,  with  its  smiling  board,  its  cheering 
lire, 

The  half-choked  welcome  of  the  expecting 
sire, 

The  mother's  kiss,  and,  still  if   aught  re 
main, 

Our  whispering  hearts  shall  aid  the  silent 

strain. 
Ah,  let  the  dreamer  o'er  the  taffrail  lean 

To  muse  unheeded,  and  to  weep  unseen; 

Fear  not  the  tropic's    dews,  the  evening's 
chills, 

His  heart  lies  warm  among  his  triple  hills  ! 

Turned  from  her  path  by  this  deceitful 

gleam, 

My  wayward  fancy  half  forgets  her  theme. 
See  through  the  streets  that  slumbered  in 

repose 

The  living  current  of  devotion  flows, 
Its  varied  forms  in  one  harmonious  band: 
Age  leading  childhood  by  its  dimpled  hand; 
Want,  in  the  robe  whose  faded  edges  fall 
To  tell  of  rags  beneath  the  tartan  shawl; 
And  wealth,  in  silks  that,  fluttering  to  ap 
pear, 

Lift  the  deep  borders  of   the  proud  cash 
mere. 

See,  but  glance  brieily,  sorrow- worn  and 
pale, 


Those  sunken  cheeks  beneath  the  widow's 

veil ; 

Alone  she  wanders  where  with  him  she  trod, 
Xo  arm  to  stay  her,  but  she  leans  on  God. 
While    other  doublets  deviate  here  and 

there, 
What    secret    handcuff   binds   that   pretty 

pair  ? 

Compactest  couple!  pressing  side  to  side,  — 
Ah,  the  white  bonnet  that  reveals  the  bride  ! 
By  the  white  neckcloth,  with  its  strait 
ened  tie, 

The  sober  hat,  the  Sabbath-speaking  eye, 
Severe  and  smileless,  he  that  runs  may  read 
The  stern  disciple  of  Geneva's  creed: 
Decent  and  slow,  behold  his  solemn  march; 
Silent  he  enters  through  yon  crowded  arch. 

A  livelier  bearing  of  the  outward  man, 
The  light-lined  gloves,  the  undevout  rattan, 
Xow    smartly    raised    or    half    profanely 

twirled,  — 
A  bright,  fresh  twinkle  from  the  week-day 

world,  — 

Tell  their  plain  story;  yes,  thine  eyes  be 
hold 

A  cheerful  Christian  from  the  liberal  fold. 
Down    the    chill    street    that    curves    in 

gloomiest  shade 

What  marks  betray  yon  solitary  maid  ? 
The  cheek's  red  rose  that  speaks  of  balm 
ier  air, 

The  Celtic  hue  that  shades  her  braided  hair, 
The  gilded  missal  in  her  kerchief  tied,  — 
Poor  Xora,  exile  from  Killarney's  side  ! 
Sister  in  toil,  though  blanched  by  colder 

skies, 

That  left  their  azure  in  her  downcast  eyes, 
Sec  pallid  Margaret,  Labor's  patient  child, 
Scarce  weaned  from  home,  the  nursling  of 

the  wild, 
Where    white    Katahdin    o'er    the    horizon 

shines, 
And  broad  Penobscot  dashes  through  the 

pines. 

Still,  as  she  hastes,  her  careful  ringers  hold 
The  unfailing  hymn-book  in  its  cambric 

fold. 
Six  days  at  drudgery's   heavy  wheel  she 

stands, 
The    seventh    sweet    morning    folds    her 

weary  hands. 
Yes,  child    of    suffering,  thou  mayst  well 

be  sure 

lie   who    ordained  the   Sabbath   loves  the 
poor ! 


48 


POEMS    PUBLISHED    BETWEEN    1837    AND    1848 


This   weekly   picture   faithful    Memory 
draws, 

Nor  claims  the  noisy  tribute  of  applause; 

Faint  is  the   glow  such  barren  hopes  can 
lend, 

And  frail  the  line  that  asks  no  loftier  end. 
Trust  me,  kind  listener,  I  will  yet  be 
guile 

Thy  saddened   features   of   the   promised 
smile. 

This  magic  mantle  thou  must  well  divide, 

It  has  its  sable  and  its  ermine  side; 

Yet,  ere  the  lining  of  the  robe  appears, 

Take  thou  in  silence  what  I  give  in  tears. 

Dear  listening  soul,  this  transitory  scene 
Of  murmuring  stillness,  busily  serene,  — 
This  solemn  pause,  the  breathing-space  of 

man, 

The  halt  of  toil's  exhausted  caravan,  — 
Comes  sweet  with  music  to  thy  wearied 

ear; 
Rise  with  its  anthems  to  a  holier  sphere  ! 

Deal   meekly,   gently,    with    the    hopes 

that  guide 
The  lowliest   brother   straying   from    thy 

side: 
If  right,  they  bid  thee  tremble  for  thine 

own; 
If  wrong,  the  verdict  is  for  God  alone  ! 

What  though  the  champions  of  thy  faith 

esteem 
The     sprinkled     fountain     or     baptismal 

stream ; 

Shall  jealous  passions  in  unseemly  strife 
Cross  their  dark  weapons  o'er  the  waves  of 

life? 

Let  my  free  soul,  expanding  as  it  can, 
Leave  to  his  scheme  the  thoughtful  Puri 
tan; 

But  Calvin's  dogma  shall  my  lips  deride  ? 
In  that  stern  faith  my  angel  Mary  died; 
Or  ask  if  mercy's  milder  creed  can  save, 
Sweet   sister,   risen   from    thy    new-made 
grave  ? 

True,  the  harsh  founders  of  thy  church 

reviled 
That    ancient   faith,   the   trust    of    Erin's 

child; 

Must  thou  be  raking  in  the  crumbled  past 
For  racks  and  fagots  in  her  teeth  to  cast  ? 


See  from  the  ashes  of  Helvetia's  pile 
The  whitened  skull  of  old  Servetus  smile  ! 
Round    her    young    heart    thy    "Romish 

Upas  "  threw 
Its  firm,  deep  fibres,  strengthening  as  she 

grew; 
Thy  sneering  voice  may  call  them  "  Popish 

tricks," 

Her  Latin  prayers,  her  dangling  crucifix, 
But   De    Profundis    blessed    her    father's 

grave, 

That  "  idol  "  cross  her  dying  mother  gave ! 
What  if  some  angel  looks  with  equal  eyes 
On  her  and  thee,  the  simple  and  the  wise, 
Writes  each  dark  fault  against  thy  brighter 

creed, 

And  drops  a  tear  with  every  foolish  bead! 
Grieve,  as  thou  must,  o'er  history's  reek 
ing  page; 
Blush  for  the  wrongs  that  stain  thy  happier 

age; 
Strive  with  the  wanderer  from  the  better 

path, 

Bearing  thy  message  meekly,  not  in  wrath; 
Weep  for  the  frail  that  err,  the  weak  that 

fall, 
Have    thine    own    faith,  —  but   hope   and 

pray  for  all ! 

Faith;    Conscience;     Love.     A    meaner 

task  remains, 
And    humbler    thoughts    must     creep    in 

lowlier  strains. 
Shalt  thou  be  honest  ?     Ask   the  worldly 

schools, 
And  all  will  tell  thee  knaves  are  busier 

fools; 
Prudent  ?     Industrious  ?     Let  not  modern 

pens 
Instruct  "Poor  Richard's  "  fellow-citizens. 

Be  firm!     One  constant  element  in  luck 
Is  genuine  solid  old  Teutonic  pluck. 
See  yon  tall  shaft;  it  felt  the  earthquake's 

thrill, 
Clung  to  its  base,  and  greets  the  sunrise 

still. 

Stick  to  your  aim:  the  mongrel's  hold 

will  slip, 

But  only  crowbars  loose  the  bulldog's  grip ; 
Small   as   he   looks,   the   jaw   that    never 

yields 
Drags  down  the  bellowing  monarch  of  the 

fields ! 


A   RHYMED   LESSON 


49 


Yet  in  opinions  look  not  always  back,  — 
Your  wake  is  nothing,  mind   the    coming 


Leave  what  you  've  done  for  what  you  have 

to  do; 
Don't  be  "  consistent,"  but  be  simply  true. 

Don't  catch  the  fidgets;  you  have  found 

your  place 

Just  in' the  focus  of  a  nervous  race, 
Fretful  to  change  and  rabid  to  discuss, 
Full  of  excitements,  always  in  a  fuss. 
Think  of  the  patriarchs;  then  compare  as 


These  lean-cheeked  maniacs  of  the  tongue 

and  pen ! 
Run,  if    you    like,  but    try    to    keep    your 

breath ; 
Work  like  a  man,  but  don't  be  worked  to 

death ; 
And    with   new  notions,  —  let    me    change 

the  rule,  — 
Don't  strike  the  iron  till  it 's  slightly  cool. 

Choose  well  your  act ;  our  feeble  nature 

seeks 
The    aid    of     clubs,    the    countenance    of 

cliques; 

And  with  this  object  settle  first  of  all 
Your    weight    of    metal  and    your  size   of 

ball. 
Track  not  the  steps  of   such  as  hold  you 

cheap, 
Too  mean  to  prize,  though  good  enough  to 


The     "  real,     genuine,     no-mistake     Tom 

Thumbs  " 
Are    little    people    fed    on    great     men's 


Yet  keep   no  followers   of    that  hateful 

brood 
That   basely   mingles   with    its   wholesome 

food 

The  tumid  reptile,  which,  the  poet  said, 
Doth  wear  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head. 

If     the    wild     filly,    "  Progress,"    thou 

wouldst  ride, 

Have  young  companions  ever  at  thy  side; 
But   wouldst   thou   stride    the    stanch   old 

mare,  "  Success," 
Go  with  thine  elders,  though  they  please 

thee  less. 

Shun  such  as  lounge  through  afternoons 
and  eves, 


And     on    thy    dial     write,    "  Beware    of 

thieves!  " 

Felon  of  minutes,  never  taught  to  feel 
The  worth  of  treasures  which  thy  fingers 

steal, 

Pick  my  left  pocket  of  its  silver  dime, 
But  spare  the  right,  —  it  holds  my  golden 


Does  praise  delight  thee  ?     Choose  some 

ultra  side,  — 

A  sure  old  recipe,  and  often  tried; 
Be  its  apostle,  congressman,  or  bard, 
Spokesman  or  jokesman,  only  drive  it  hard; 
But    know    the    forfeit    which    thy    choice 

abides, 
For   on     two    wheels    the    poor   reformer 

rides,  — 

One  black  with  epithets  the  anti  throws, 
One  white  with  flattery  painted  by  the  pros. 

Though  books  on  MANNERS  are  not  out 

of  print, 
An    honest    tongue    may  drop    a  harmless 

hint. 
Stop  not,  unthinking,  every  friend   you 

meet, 

To  spin  your  wordy  fabric  in  the  street; 
While  you  are    emptying   your    colloquial 

pack, 

The  fiend  Lwribago  jumps  upon  his  back. 
Nor  cloud  his   features  with  the  unwel 
come  tale 

Of  how  he  looks,  if  haply  thin  and  pale; 
Health  is  a  subject  for  his  child,  his  wife, 
And  the  rude  office  that  insures  his  life. 
Look  in  his  face,  to  meet  thy  neighbor's 

soul. 

Xot  on  his  garments,  to  detect  a  hole; 
"  How  to  observe  "  is  what  thy  pages  show, 
Pride  of  thy  sex,  Miss  Harriet  Martineau  ! 
Oh,  what  a  precious  book  the  one  would  be 
That  taught  observers  what  they  're   not  to 

see  ! 

I  tell  in  verse  —  't  were  better  done   in 

prose  — 

One  curious  trick  that  everybody  knows; 
Once  form  this  habit,  and  it 's  very  strange 
How    long    it    sticks,    how    hard     it    is    to 


Two    friendly     people,    both    disposed    to 


Who  meet,  like  others,  every  little  while, 
Instead  of  passing  with  a  pleasant  bow, 


5° 


POEMS    PUBLISHED   BETWEEN    1837   AND    1848 


And  "  How   d'  ye  do  ?  "  or  "  How 's  your 

uncle  now  ?  " 

Impelled  by  feelings  in  their  nature  kind, 
But  slightly  weak  and  somewhat  undefined, 
Hush  at  each  other,  make  a  sudden  stand, 
Begin  to  talk,  expatiate,  and  expand; 
Each  looks  quite  radiant,  seems  extremely 

struck, 

Their  meeting  so  was  such  a  piece  of  luck; 
Each  thinks  the  other  thinks  he  's  greatly 

pleased 
To  screw  the  vice  in  which  they  both  are 

squeezed  ; 
So    there    they  talk,  in  dust,  or   mud,    or 

snow, 
Both  bored  to  death,  and  both  afraid  to 

go  ! 
Your  hat  once  lifted,  do  not  hang  your 

fire, 

Nor,  like  slow  Ajax,  fighting  still,  retire; 
When  your  old  castor  on  your  crown  you 

clap, 
Go  off;  you  've   mounted  your  percussion 

cap. 

Some  words  on  LANGUAGE  may  be  well 

applied, 
And  take  them  kindly,  though  they  touch 

your  pride. 

Words  lead  to  things;  a  scale  is  more  pre 
cise,  — 
Coarse   speech,   bad    grammar,    swearing, 

drinking,  vice. 

Our  cold  Northeaster's  icy  fetter  clips 
The  native  freedom  of  the  Saxon  lips ; 
See  the  brown  peasant  of  the  plastic  South, 
How  all  his  passions  play  about  his  mouth ! 
With   us,  the   feature   that  transmits   the 

soul, 

A  frozen,  passive,  palsied  breathing-hole. 
The  crampy  shackles   of   the  ploughboy's 

walk 
Tie  the  small  muscles  when  he  strives  to 

talk; 

Not  all  the  pumice  of  the  polished  town 
Can  smooth  this  roughness  of  the  barnyard 

down ; 

Rich,  honored,  titled,  he  betrays  his  race 
By  this  one  mark,  —  he  's  awkward  in  the 

face  ;  — 
Nature's    rude    impress,  long    before    he 

knew 

The  sunny  street  that  holds  the  sifted  few. 
It  can't  be  helped,  though,  if  we  're  taken 

young, 


We  gain  some   freedom   of   the   lips   and 

tongue ; 

But  school  and  college  often  try  in  vain 
To  break   the   padlock   of   our   boyhood's 

chain : 
One  stubborn  word  will  prove  this  axiom 

true,  — 
No  quondam  rustic  can  enunciate  view. 

A  few  brief  stanzas   may  be  well   em 
ployed 
To  speak  of  errors  we  can  all  avoid. 

Learning  condemns  beyond  the  reach  of 

hope 
The  careless  lips  that  speak  of   soap   for 

soap; 

Her  edict  exiles  from  her  fair  abode 
The  clownish  voice  that   utters    road    for 

road: 

Less  stern  to  him  who  calls  his  coat  a  coat, 
And  steers  his  boat,  believing  it  a  boat, 
She  pardoned  one,  our  classic  city's  boast, 
Who  said   at  Cambridge  most  instead   of 

most, 
But  knit  her  brows  and  stamped  her  angry 

foot 
To  hear  a  Teacher  call  a  root  a  root. 

Once  more:  speak  clearly,  if  you  speak 

at  all ; 

Carve  every  word  before  you  let  it  fall ; 
Don't,  like  a  lecturer  or  dramatic  star, 
Try  over-hard  to  roll  the  British  R  ; 
Do  put  your  accents  in  the  proper  spot  ; 
Don't,  —  let    me   beg    you,  —  don't    say 

"How?  "for  "What?" 
And  when  you  stick  on  conversation's  burs, 
Don't    strew   your     pathway   with    those 

dreadful  urs. 

From  little  matters  let  us  pass  to  less, 
And  lightly  touch  the  mysteries  of  DRESS  ; 
The  outward  forms  the  inner  man  reveal,  — 
We  guess  the  pulp  before  we  cut  the  peel. 

I  leave  the  broadcloth,  —  coats  and  all 
the  rest,  — 

The  dangerous  waistcoat,  called  by  cock 
neys  "  vest," 

The  things  named  "  pants "  in  certain 
documents, 

A  word  not  made  for  gentlemen,  but 
"  gents ;  " 

One  single  precept  might  the  whole  con 
dense: 


A    RHYMED    LESSON 


Be  sure  your  tailor  is  a  man  of  sense; 
But  add  a  little  care,  a  decent  pride, 
And  always  err  upon  the  sober  side. 

Three  pairs  of  boots  one  pair  of  feet  de 
mands, 

If  polished  daily  by  the  owner's  hands; 
If  the  dark  menial's  visit  save  from  this, 
Have  twice  the  number,  —  for  he  '11  some 
times  miss. 

One  pair  for  critics  of  the  nicer  sex, 
Close  in  the  instep's  clinging1  circumflex, 
Long,  narrow,  light;  the  Gallic  boot  of  love, 
A  kind  of  cross  between  a  boot  and  glove. 
Compact,  but     easy,    strong,     substantial, 

square, 

Let  native  art  compile  the  medium  pair. 
The   third  remains,  and    let   vour   tasteful 

skill 

Here  show  some  relics  of  affection  still; 
Let  no  stilt'  cowhide,  reeking  from  the  tan, 
No  rough  caoutchouc,  no  deformed  brogan, 
Disgrace  the  tapering  outline  of  your  feet, 
Though  yellow  torrents  gurgle  through  the 
street. 

Wear  seemly  gloves;  not  black,  nor  yet 

too  light, 
And  least  of   all  the    pair   that    once  was 

white; 
Let   the  dead  party  where  you  told  your 

loves 

Bury  in  peace  its  dead  bouquets  and  gloves; 
Shave  like  the  goat,  if  so  your  fancy  bids, 
But  be  a  parent,  —  don't  neglect  your  kids. 

Have  a  good  hat;  the  secret  of  your  looks 
Lives  with  the  beaver  in  Canadian  brooks; 
Virtue  may  flourish  in  an  old  cravat, 
But  man  and  nature  scorn  the  shocking  hat. 
Does    beauty    slight    you    from    her    gay 

abodes  ? 
Like    bright    Apollo,    you   must    take    to 

Uhoades,  — 

Mount  the  new  castor,  —  ice  itself  will  melt; 
Boots,  gloves,  may  fail;  the  hat  is  always 

felt! 

Be  shy  of  breastpins;  plain,  well-ironed 

white, 
With  small  pearl  buttons,  —  two  of  them 

in  sight,  — 
Is   always  genuine,  while  your  gems  may 

pass, 
Though  real  diamonds,  for  ignoble  glass. 


But  spurn  those  paltry  Cisatlantic  lies 
That  round  his  breast  the  shabby  rustic  ties ; 
Breathe  not  the  name  profaned  to  hallow 

things 
The  indignant  laundress  blushes  when  she 

brings! 

Our  freeborn  race,  averse  to  every  check, 
Has  tossed  the  yoke  of   Europe    from  its 

neck; 

From  the  green  prairie  to  the  sea-girt  town, 
The    whole    wide   nation   turns  its    collars 

down. 
The  stately  neck  is  manhood's  manliest 

part; 
It   takes  the  life-blood  freshest  from  the 

heart. 
With  short,  curled  ringlets  close  around  it 

spread, 
How  light  and  strong  it  lifts  the  Grecian 

head! 

Thine,  fair  Erechtheus  of  Minerva's  wall; 
Or   thine,  young   athlete  of   the   Louvre's 

hall, 

Smooth  as  the  pillar  flashing  in  the  sun 
That   filled   the    arena  where  thy  wreaths 

were  won, 
Eirm  as  the  band  that  clasps  the  antlered 

spoil 
Strained  in  the  winding  anaconda's  coil! 

I  spare  the  contrast;  it  were  only  kind 
To  be  a  little,  nay,  intensely  blind. 
Choose  for  yourself:  I  know  it  cuts  your 

ear; 

I  know  the  points  will  sometimes  interfere; 
I  know  that  often,  like  the  filial  John, 
Whom  sleep  surprised  with  half  his  drapery 

on, 
You  show  your  features  to  the  astonished 

town 
With    one    side    standing    and    the    other 

down ;  — 

But   oh,    my    friend!  my    favorite    fellow- 
man! 

If  Nature  made  you  on  her  modern  plan, 
Sooner    than    wander  with    your  windpipe 

bare,  — 

The  fruit  of  Eden  ripening  in  the  air,  — 
With  that  lean  head-stalk,  that  protruding 

chin, 
Wear  standing  collars,  were  they  made  of 

tin! 
And  have  a  neckcloth  —  by  the  throat  of 

Jove ! — 
Cut  from  the  funnel  of  a  rusty  stove! 


52 


POEMS    PUBLISHED   BETWEEN    1837    AND    1848 


The  long-drawn   lesson   narrows   to   its 

close, 
Chill,  slender,  slow,  the  dwindled  current 

flows ; 

Tired  of  the  ripples  on  its  feeble  springs, 
Once  more  the  Muse  unfolds  her  upward 

wings. 

Land  of  my  birth,  with  this  unhallowed 

tongue, 
Thy  hopes,  thy  dangers,  I  perchance  had 

sung; 

But  who  shall  sing,  in  brutal  disregard 
Of  all  the  essentials  of  the  "  native  bard  "  ? 
Lake,  sea,  shore,  prairie,  forest,  moun 
tain,  fall, 

His  eye  omnivorous  must  devour  them  all ; 
The  tallest  summits  and  the  broadest  tides 
His  foot  must  compass  with  its  giant  strides, 
Where  Ocean  thunders,  where  Missouri 

rolls, 
And   tread   at   once   the    tropics   and   the 

poles ; 

His  food  all  forms  of  earth,  fire,  water,  air, 
His  home  all   space,  his  birthplace  every 
where. 

Some  grave  compatriot,  having  seen  per 
haps 
The  pictured  page  that  goes  in  Worcester's 

Maps, 

And  read  in  earnest  what  was  said  in  jest, 
"  Who  drives  fat  oxen  "  —  please  to   add 

the  rest,  — 
Sprung  the   odd    notion    that    the   poet's 

dreams 

Grow  in  the  ratio  of  his  hills  and  streams; 
And    hence    insisted    that    the    aforesaid 

"  bard," 

Pink  of  the  future,  fancy's  pattern-card, 
The  babe  of  nature  in  the  "  giant  West," 
Must  be  of  course   her   biggest   and   her 
best. 

Oh!  when  at  length  the   expected  bard 

shall  come, 
Land  of  our  pride,  to  strike   thine  echoes 

dumb, 
(And  many  a  voice  exclaims  in  prose  and 

rhyme, 

It 's  getting  late,  and  he  's  behind  his  time,) 
When  all  thy  mountains  clap  their  hands 

in  joy, 

And  all   thy  cataracts  thunder,   "  That 's 
the  boy,"  — 


Say  if  with  him  the  reign  of  song  shall  end, 
And  Heaven  declare  its  final  dividend  ! 

Be   calm,   dear    brother!    whose   impas 
sioned  strain 

Comes  from  an  alley  watered  by  a  drain; 
The  little  Mincio,  dribbling  to  the  Po, 
Beats  all  the  epics  of  the  Hoang  Ho; 
If  loved  in  earnest  by  the  tuneful  maid, 
Don't    mind    their    nonsense,  —  never    be 
afraid ! 

The  nurse  of  poets   feeds   her   winged 

brood 

By  common  firesides,  on  familiar  food; 
In  a  low  hamlet,  by  a  narrow  stream, 
Where   bovine   rustics   used  to   doze   and 

dream, 

She  filled  young  William's  fiery  fancy  full, 
While  old  John  Shakespeare  talked  of 

beeves  and  wool ! 

No  Alpine  needle,  with  its  climbing  spire, 
Brings  down  for  mortals  the  Promethean 

fire, 

If  careless  nature  have  forgot  to  frame 
An  altar  worthy  of  the  sacred  flame. 

Unblest  by  any  save  the  goatherd's  lines, 
Mont  Blanc  rose  soaring  through  his  "  sea 

of  pines; " 

In  vain  the  rivers  from  their  ice-caves  flash ; 
No  hymn  salutes  them  but  the  Ranz  des 

Vaches, 

Till  lazy  Coleridge,  by  the  morning's  light, 
Gazed  for  a  moment  on  the  fields  of  white, 
And  lo!  the  glaciers  found  at  length  a 

tongue, 
Mont  Blanc  was  vocal,  and  Chamouni  sung! 

Children  of  wealth  or  want,  to  each  is 

given 
One   spot   of   green,  and   all   the   blue   of 

heaven  ! 

Enough  if  these  their  outward  shows  im 
part; 
The  rest  is  thine,  —  the  scenery  of  the  heart. 

If  passion's  hectic  in  thy  stanzas  glow, 
Thy  heart's  best  life-blood  ebbing  as  they 

flow; 
If  with  thy  verse  thy  strength  and  bloom 

distil, 
Drained    by   the    pulses    of    the   fevered 

thrill; 
If    sound's    sweet    effluence    polarize   thy 

brain, 


A   RHYMED    LESSON 


53 


And    thoughts   turn   crystals   in  thy  fluid 

strain, — 
Nor  rolling  ocean,  nor  the  prairie's  bloom, 


With    smooth    "  Resolves "    or    with    dis 
cordant  cries, 
The  mad  Briareus  of  disunion  rise, 


Nor  streaming  cliffs,  nor  rayless  cavern's      Chiefs  of   New  England!    by   your   sires' 


gloom, 


renown, 


Need'st  tliou,  young    poet,  to  inform  thy      Dash  the  red  torches  of  the  rebel  down  ! 


line  ; 
Thy  own  broad    signet    stamps    thy    song 

divine  ! 
Let   others   gaze  where  silvery  streams 

are  rolled, 
And  chase  the  rainbow  for  its  cup  of  gold; 


Flood  his  black  hearthstone  till  its  flames 

expire, 
Though  your  old  Sachem  fanned  his  coun 

cil-fire  ! 

But  if  at  last,  her  fading  cycle  run, 


To  thee  all  landscapes  wear  a  heavenly  dye,       The  tongue  must  forfeit  what  the  arm  has 


Changed  in  the  glance  of  thy  prismatic  eye; 
Nature  evoked  thee  in  sublimer  throes, 
For  thee  her  inmost  Arethusa  Hows,  — 
The  mighty  mother's  living  depths  are 

stirred,  — 
Thou  art  the  starred  Osiris  of  the  herd! 

A  few  brief  lines;  they  touch  on  solemn 

chords, 
And  hearts  may  leap  to  hear  their  honest 

words  ; 

Yet,  ere  the  jarring  bugle-blast  is  blown, 
The  softer  lyre  shall  breathe  its  soothing 

tone. 


Then   rise,  wild  Ocean  !    roll   thy  surging 

shock 

Full  on  old  Plymouth's  desecrated  rock  ! 
Scale    the    proud  shaft   degenerate   hands 

have  hewn, 
Where  bleeding  Valor  stained  the  flowers 

of  June! 
Sweep   in  one  tide  her  spires  and  turrets 

down, 
And  howl  her  dirge  above   Monadnock's 

crown  ! 


List  not  the  tale;  the  Pilgrim's  hallowed 

shore, 

New  England !  proudly  may  thy  children      Though   strewn  with  weeds,  is  granite  at 
claim 


Their  honored  birthright  by  its  humblest 

name! 
Cold   are   thy  skies,  but,  ever  fresh   and 

clear, 

No  rank  malaria  stains  thine  atmosphere; 
No  fungous  weeds  invade  thy  scanty  soil, 
Scarred  by  the  ploughshares  of  unslumber- 

ing  toil. 
Long    may    the    doctrines    by   thy   sages 

taught, 
liaised  from  the  quarries  where  their  sires 

'     have  wrought, 
Be    like    the    granite    of   thy   rock-ribbed 

land,  — 

As  slow  to  rear,  as  obdurate  to  stand  ; 
And  as  the  ice  that  leaves  thy  crystal  mine 
Chills  the  fierce    alcohol    in   the    Creole's 

wine, 

So  may  the  doctrines  of  thy  sober  school 
Keep   the    hot   theories  of   thy  neighbors 

cool! 

If  ever,  trampling  on  her  ancient  path, 
Cankered    by    treachery    or   inflamed    by 
wrath, 


the  core; 
Oil,  rather  trust  that  He   who  made  her 

free 

Will  keep  her  true  as  long  as  faith  shall  be! 
Farewell  !    yet     lingering    through    the 

destined  hour, 
Leave,  sweet    Enchantress,  one  memorial 

flower  ! 

An    Angel,    floating    o'er   the    waste    of 

snow 

That  clad  our  Western  desert,  long  ago, 
(The  same  fair  spirit  who,  unseen  by  day, 
Shone    as   a    star    along    the    Mayflower's 

way,)  — 

Sent,  the  first  herald  of  the  Heavenly  plan, 
To    choose    on    earth    a    resting-place    for 

man,  — 
Tired   with   his  flight  along  the  unvaried 

field, 
Turned  to  soar  upwards,  when  his  glance 

revealed 
A    calm,    bright    bay    enclosed    in   rocky 

bounds, 
And   at   its    entrance    stood    three    sister 


54 


POEMS   PUBLISHED   BETWEEN   1837    AND    1848 


The  Angel  spake:  "This  threefold   hill 

shall  be 

The  home  of  Arts,  the  nurse  of  Liberty  ! 
One  stately  summit  from   its   shaft   shall 

pour 
Its    deep-red    blaze    along   the   darkened 

shore ; 
Emblem  of  thoughts  that,  kindling  far  and 

wide, 

In  danger's  night  shall  be  a  nation's  guide. 
One  swelling  crest  the  citadel  shall  crown, 
Its  slanted  bastions  black  with  battle's 

frown, 
And  bid  the  sons  that  tread  its  scowling 

heights 
Bare  their  strong  arms  for  man  and  all  his 

rights! 

One  silent  steep  along  the  northern  wave 
Shall  hold  the  patriarch's  and  the  hero's 

grave ; 

When  fades  the  torch,  when  o'er  the  peace 
ful  scene 
The   embattled   fortress   smiles   in    living 

green, 
The    cross  of    Faith,  the  anchor  staff    of 

Hope, 

Shall  stand  eternal  on  its  grassy  slope ; 
There    through    all    time    shall     faithful 

Memory  tell, 
'  Here   Virtue    toiled,  and   Patriot   Valor 

fell; 
Thy  free,  proud  fathers    slumber   at   thy 

side; 
Live    as   they  lived,   or    perish    as    they 

died ! ' " 


AN    AFTER-DINNER   POEM 
(TERPSICHORE) 

Read  at  the  Annual  Dinner  of  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Society,  at  Cambridge,  August  24, 
1843. 

IN  narrowest  girdle,  O  reluctant  Muse, 
In  closest  frock  and  Cinderella  shoes, 
Bound  to  the  foot-lights  for  thy  brief  dis 
play, 
One  zephyr  step,  and  then  dissolve  away! 


Short  is  the  space  that  gods  and  men  can 

spare 
To  Song's  twin  brother  when  she  is   not 

there. 


Let  others  water  every  lusty  line, 

As  Homer's  heroes  did  their  purple  wine ; 

Pierian   revellers!     Know   in   strains   like 

these 

The  native  juice,  the  real  honest  squeeze,  — 
Strains     that,    diluted    to    the    twentieth 

power, 
In  yon  grave  temple  might  have  filled  an 

hour. 
Small    room    for    Fancy's    many-chorded 

lyre, 
For  Wit's  bright  rockets  with  their  trains 

of  fire, 

For  Pathos,  struggling  vainly  to  surprise 
The  iron  tutor's  tear-denying  eyes, 
For    Mirth,    whose    finger    with    delusive 

wile 

Turns  the  grim  key  of  many  a  rusty  smile, 
For  Satire,  emptying  his  corrosive  flood 
On  hissing  Folly's  gas-exhaling  brood, 
The  pun,  the  fun,  the  moral,  and  the  joke, 
The  hit,  the  thrust,  the  pugilistic  poke,  — 
Small  space  for  these,  so  pressed  by  nig 
gard  Time, 
Like  that  false  matron,  known  to  nursery 

rhyme,— 

Insidious  Morey,  —  scarce  her  tale  begun, 
Ere  listening  infants  weep  the  story  clone. 

Oh,  had  we  room  to  rip  the  mighty  bags 
That  Time,  the  harlequin,  has  stuffed  with 

rags! 
Grant    us    one    moment    to    unloose    the 

strings, 
While  the  old  graybeard  shuts  his  leather 

wings. 

But  what  a  heap  of  motley  trash  appears 
Crammed   in    the    bundles   of    successive 

years ! 

As  the  lost  rustic  on  some  festal  day 
Stares   through   the  concourse  in  its  vast 

array,  — 

Where  in  one  cake  a  throng  of  faces  runs, 
All  stuck  together  like  a  sheet  of  buns,  — 
And  throws  the  bait  of  some  unheeded 

name, 

Or  shoots  a  wink  with  most  uncertain  aim, 
So  roams  my  vision,  wandering  over  all, 
And  strives  to  choose,  but  knows  not  where 

to  fall. 

Skins  of  flayed  authors,  husks  of  dead  re 
views, 

The  turn-coat's  clothes,  the  office-seeker's 
shoes, 


AN   AFTER-DINNER  POEM 


55 


Scraps  from  cold  feasts,  where  conversa 
tion  runs 

Through  mouldy  toasts  to  oxidated  puns, 
And  grating'  songs  a  listening  crowd  en 
dures, 
Rasped    from    the    throats    of    bellowing 

amateurs; 

Sermons,  whose  writers  played  such  dan 
gerous  tricks 

Their  own  heresiarchs  called  them  heretics, 
(Strange  that  one  term  such  distant  poles 

should  link, 
The  Priestley an's  copper  and  the  Puseyan's 

zinc); 

Poems  that  shuffle  with  superfluous  legs 
A  blindfold  minuet  over  addled  eggs, 
Where  all  the  syllables  that  end  in  ed, 
Like   old   dragoons,   have  cuts    across    the 

head  ; 

Essays  so  dark  Champollion  might  despair 
To  guess  what  mummy  of  a  thought  was 

there, 
Where    our    poor    English,    striped    with 

foreign  phrase, 

Looks  like  a  zebra  in  a  parson's  chaise; 
Lectures    that    cut    our    dinners    down    to 

roots, 
Or  prove  (by  monkeys)  men  should  stick 

to  fruits,  — 

Delusive  error,  as  at  trifling  charge 
Professor  Gripes  will  certify  at  large ; 
Mesmeric  pamphlets,  which  to  facts  appeal, 
Each  fact  as  slippery  as  a  fresh-caught  eel; 
And  figured  heads,  whose  hieroglyphs  in 
vite 
To  wandering  knaves  that  discount  fools 


Such  things  as  these,  with  heaps  of  unpaid 


And  candy  puffs  and  homoeopathic  pills, 
And    ancient    bell-crowns   with  contracted 

rim, 

And  bonnets  hideous  with  expanded  brim, 
And  coats  whose  memory  turns  the  sartor 

pale, 
Their     sequels     tapering    like    a    lizard's 


How  might  we  spread  them  to  the  smiling 

day, 
And   toss   them,  fluttering  like   the  new- 


To    laughter's    light    or    sorrow's    pitying 

shower, 
Were  these  brief  minutes  lengthened  to  an 


The    narrow    moments    fit    like     Sunday 

shoes,  — 
How  vast  the  heap,  how  quickly  must  we 

choose ! 
A  few  small  scraps  from  out  his  mountain 

mass 

We  snatch  in  haste,  and  let  the  vagrant  pass. 
This  shrunken  CRUST  that  Cerberus  could 

not  bite, 

Stamped  (in  one  corner)  "  Pickwick  copy 
right," 
Kneaded  by  youngsters,  raised  by  flattery's 

yeast, 
Was  once    a  loaf,  and  helped    to  make  a 

feast. 
He    for    whose    sake    the    glittering   show 

appears 
Has  sown    the    world   with    laughter   and 

with  tears, 
And  they  whose  welcome  wets  the  bumper's 

brim 
Have  wit  and  wisdom,  —  for  they  all  quote 


So,  many  a  tongue   the  evening   hour  pro 
longs 
With  spangled   speeches,  —  let  alone    the 

songs; 
Statesmen     grow    merry,     lean    attorneys 

laugh, 

And  weak  teetotals  warm  to  half  and  half, 
And  beardless  Tullys,  new  to  festive  scenes, 
Cut  their  first  crop  of  youth's  precocious 

greens, 

And  wits  stand  ready  for  impromptu  claps, 
With  loaded  barrels  and  percussion  caps, 
And  Pathos,  cantering  through   the   minor 

keys, 
Waves    all    her    onions    to   the   trembling 

breeze; 
While  the  great  Feasted  views  with  silent 

glee 
His  scattered  limbs  in  Yankee  fricassee. 

Sweet  is  the  scene  where  genial  friendship 
plays 

The  pleasing  game  of  interchanging  praise. 

Self-love,  grimalkin  of  the  human  heart, 

Is  ever  pliant  to  the  master's  art; 

Soothed  with  a  word,  she  peacefully  with 
draws 

And    sheathes    in    velvet     her     obnoxious 


And    thrills    the    hand    that    smooths    her 

glossy  fur 
With  the  light  tremor  of  her  grateful  purr. 


POEMS   PUBLISHED    BETWEEN    1837    AND    1848 


But  what  sad  music  fills  the  quiet  hall, 

If  on  her  back  a  feline  rival  fall  ! 

Aud  oh,  what   noises   shake   the   tranquil 

house 
If  old  Self-interest  cheats  her  of  a  mouse  ! 

Thou,  O  my  country,  hast  thy  foolish  ways, 

Too  apt  to  purr  at  every  stranger's  praise; 

But  if  the  stranger  touch  thy  modes  or 
laws, 

Off  goes  the  velvet  and  out  come  the 
claws  ! 

And  thou,  Illustrious  !  but  too  poorly 
paid 

In  toasts  from  Pickwick  for  thy  great  cru 
sade, 

Though,  while  the  echoes  labored  with  thy 
name, 

The  public  trap  denied  thy  little  game, 

Let  other  lips  our  jealous  laws  revile,  — 

The   marble   Talfourd   or    the   rude   Car- 

lyle,— 

But  on  thy  lids,  which  Heaven  forbids  to 
close 

Where'er  the  light  of  kindly  nature  glows, 

Let  not  the  dollars  that  a  churl  denies 

Weigh  like  the  shillings  on  a  dead  man's 
eyes  ! 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  be  more  discreetly  blind, 

Nor  ask  to  see  all  wide  extremes  combined, 

Not  in  our  wastes  the  dainty  blossoms 
smile 

That  crowd  the  gardens  of  thy  scanty  isle. 

There  white-cheeked  Luxury  weaves  a 
thousand  charms; 

Here  sun-browned  Labor  swings  his  naked 
arms. 

Long  are  the  furrows  he  must  trace  be 
tween 

The  ocean's  azure  and  the  prairie's  green  ; 

Full  many  a  blank  his  destined  realm  dis 
plays, 

Yet  sees  the  promise  of  his  riper  days: 

Far  through  yon  depths  the  panting  en 
gine  moves, 

His  chariots  ringing  in  their  steel-shod 
grooves; 

And  Erie's  naiad  flings  her  diamond  wave 

O'er  the  wild  sea-nymph  in  her  distant 
cave! 

While  tasks  like  these  employ  his  anxious 
hours, 

What  if  his  cornfields  are  not  edged  with 
flowers  ? 

Though  bright  as  silver  the  meridian  beams 


Shine  through  the  crystal  of  thine  English 

streams, 

Turbid  and  dark  the  mighty  wave  is  whirled 
That  drains  our  Andes  and  divides  a  world  ! 

But  lo  !  a  PARCHMENT  !     Surely  it  would 

seem 
The   sculptured  impress   speaks  of  power 

supreme  ; 
Some  grave  design  the  solemn  page  must 

claim 

That  shows  so  broadly  an  emblazoned  name. 
A   sovereign's   promise  !     Look,  the  lines 

afford 
All   Honor   gives   when   Caution  asks  his 

word  : 
There  sacred  Faith  has  laid  her-suow-white 

hands, 

Aud  awful  Justice  knit  her  iron  bands  ; 
Yet  every  leaf  is  stained  with  treachery's 

dye, 

And  every  letter  crusted  with  a  lie. 
Alas  !  no  treason  has  degraded  yet 
The  Arab's  salt,  the  Indian's  calumet  ; 
A  simple  rite,  that  bears  the  wanderer's 

pledge, 
Blunts  the  keen  shaft  and  turns  the  dagger's 

edge; 
Wrhile  jockeying  senates  stop  to  sign  and 

seal, 

And  frceborn  statesmen  legislate  to  steal. 
Rise,  Europe,  tottering  with  thine  Atlas  load, 
Turn   thy  proud  eye   to   Freedom's   blest 

abode, 
And   round   her   forehead,  wreathed  with 

heavenly  flame, 
Bind  the  dark  garland  of   her  daughter's 

shame  ! 

Ye  ocean  clouds,  that  wrap  the  angry  blast, 
Coil  her  stained  ensign  round  its  haughty 

mast, 

Or  tear  the  fold  that  wears  so  foul  a  scar, 
And  drive  a  bolt  through  every  blackened 

star  ! 
Once  more,  —  once  only,  —  we  must  stop  so 

soon  : 
What  have  we  here  ?    A  GERMAN-SILVER 

SPOON  ; 

A  cheap  utensil,  which  we  often  see 
Used  by  the  dabblers  in  aesthetic  tea, 
Of  slender  fabric,  somewhat  light  and  thin, 
Made  of  mixed  metal,  chiefly  lead  and  tin  ; 
The  bowl  is  shallow,  and  the  handle  small, 
Marked    in   large   letters  with   the   name 

JEAN  PAUL. 


AN    AFTER-DINNER   POEM 


57 


Small    as    it    is,    its   powers   are    passing 

strange, 

For  all  who  use  it  show  a  wondrous  change  ; 
And  first,  a  fact  to  make  the  barbers  stare, 
It  beats  Macassar  for  the  growth  of  hair. 
See  those  small  youngsters  whose  expansive 

ears 
Maternal  kindness    grazed    with    frequent 

shears  ; 

Each  bristling  crop  a  dangling  mass  be 
comes, 

And  all  the  spoonies  turn  to  Absaloms  ! 
Nor  this  alone  its  magic  power  displays, 
It  alters  strangely  all  their  works  and 

ways  ; 
With  uncouth  words  they  tire  their  tender 

lungs, 
The   same  bald  phrases   on  their  hundred 

tongues  : 

"  Ever "  "  The  Ages "   in    their  page  ap 
pear, 
"  Alway  "     the     bedlamite     is     called     a 

"  Seer  ; " 
On  every   leaf    the    "earnest''    s;ige    may 

scan, 
Portentous     bore  !     their     "  many-sided " 

man,  — 

A  weak  eclectic,  groping  vague  and  dim, 
Whose  every  angle  is  a  halt-starved  whim, 
Blind  as  a  mole  and  curious  as  a  lynx, 
Who    rides    a    beetle,    which    lie    calls    a 

"  Sphinx." 
And  oh,  what  questions  asked  in  clubfoot 

rhyme 
Of  Earth  the  tongueless  and  the  deaf-mute 

Time  ! 
Here  babbling  "  Insight  "  shouts  in  Nature's 

ears 

His  last  conundrum  on  the  orbs  and  spheres  ; 
There  Self-inspection  sucks  its  little  thumb, 
With  "  Whence  am  I  ?  "  and  "  Wherefore 

did  I  come  ?  " 

Deluded  infants  !  will  they  ever  know 
Some   doubts  must   darken  o'er  the  world 

below, 

Though  all  the  Platos  of  the  nursery  trail 
Their  "  clouds  of  glory  "  at  the    go-cart's 


Oh  might   these    couplets    their   attention 
claim 


That    gain    their    author    the    Philistine's 

name  ! 
(A    stubborn  race,   that,  spurning  foreign 

law, 
Was  much  belabored  with  an  ass's  jaw.) 

Melodious  Laura  !     From  the  sad  retreats 
That  hold  thee,  smothered  with  excess  of 

sweets, 

Shade  of  a  shadow,  spectre  of  a  dream, 
Glance    thy    wan   eye    across    the  Stygian 

stream  ! 
The  slipshod  dreamer  treads  thy  fragrant 

halls, 
The    sophist's    cobwebs    hang  thy  roseate 

walls, 

And  o'er  the  crotchets  of  thy  jingling  tunes 
The  bard  of  mystery  scrawls  his  crooked 

"  runes." 
Yes,  thou  art  gone,  with    all    the    tuneful 

hordes 
That  candied  thoughts    in    amber-colored 

words, 

And  in  the  precincts  of  thy  late  abodes 
The  clattering  verse-wright  hammers  Or 
phic  odes. 

Thou,  soft  as  zephyr,  wast  content  to  lly 
On  the  gilt  pinions  of  a  balmy  sigh  ; 
He,  vast  as  Phoebus  on  his  burning  wheels, 
Would  stride  through  ether  at  Orion's  heels. 
Thy  emblem,  Laura,  was  a  perfume-jar, 
And  thine,  young  Orpheus,  is  a  pewter  star. 
The  balance  trembles,  —  be  its  verdict  told 
When  the    new  jargon   slumbers  with  the 

old! 


Cease,  play  fid  goddess  !     From  thine  airy 

bound 

Drop  like  a  feather  softly  to  the  ground  ; 
This  light  bolero  grows  a  ticklish  dance, 
And    there    is    mischief    in    thy    kindling 

glance. 

To-morrow  bids  thee,  with  rebuking  frown, 
Change  thy  gauze   tunic  for  a  home-made 

gown, 

Too  blest  by  fortune  if  the  passing  day 
Adorn  thy  bosom  with  its  frail  bouquet, 
But  oh,  still  happier  if  the  next  forgets 
Thy  daring  steps  and  dangerous  pirouettes  ! 


MEDICAL   POEMS 


[THIS  division  was  made  when   the  Kiver- 
side  Edition  was  arranged,  but  by  accident  the 

THE   MORNING  VISIT 

A   SICK   man's   chamber,  though   it   often 

boast 

The  grateful  presence  of  a  literal  toast, 
Can    hardly     claim,    amidst     its    various 

wealth, 
The    right    unchallenged    to    propose    a 

health; 

Yet  though  its  tenant  is  denied  the  feast, 
Friendship  must  launch   his  sentiment   at 

least, 
As  prisoned  damsels,  locked  from  lovers' 

lips, 
Toss  them  a  kiss  from   off   their   fingers' 

tips. 

The  morning  visit,  —  not  till  sickness  falls 
In  the  charmed  circles  of  your  own  safe 

walls; 

Till  fever's  throb  and  pain's  relentless  rack 
Stretch  you  all   helpless   on   your   aching 

back; 

Not  till  you  play  the  patient  in  your  turn, 
The     morning   visit's    mystery    shall    you 

learn. 

'T  is  a   small   matter   in   your   neighbor's 

case, 
To  charge  your  fee  for  showing  him  your 

face; 
You   skip    up-stairs,   inquire,  inspect,  and 

touch, 
Prescribe,  take  leave,  and  off  to  twenty 

such. 

But  when  at  length,  by  fate's  transferred 

decree, 

The  visitor  becomes  the  visitee, 
Oh,  then,  indeed,  it  pulls  another  string  ; 
Your   ox  is  gored,  and  that 's   a   different 

thing  ! 


last  number  in  the  division  was  at  that  time 
omitted.] 

Your  friend  is  sick  :  phlegmatic  as  a  Turk, 
You  write  your  recipe  and  let  it  work; 
Not   yours    to   stand   the   shiver   and   the 

frown, 
And   sometimes   worse,   with   which   your 

draught  goes  down. 

Calm   as   a  clock  your  knowing  hand  di 
rects, 

Rhei,  jalapce  ana  grana  sex, 
Or  traces  on  some  tender  missive's  back, 
Scrupulos  duos  pulveris  ipecac; 
And  leaves  your  patient  to  his  qualms  and 

gripes, 

Cool  as  a  sportsman  banging  at  his  snipes. 
But  change  the  time,  the  person,  and  the 

place, 

And  be  yourself  "  the  interesting  case," 
You  '11   gain   some   knowledge  which   it 's 

well  to  learn  ; 

In  future  practice  it  may  serv.e  your  turn. 
Leeches,  for  instance,  —  pleasing  creatures 

quite ; 
Try  them,  —  and  bless   you,  —  don't    you 

find  they  bite  ? 

You  raise  a  blister  for  the  smallest  cause, 
But  be  yourself  the  sitter  whom  it  draws, 
And  trust  my  statement,  you  will  not 

deny 
The  worst  of  draughtsmen  is  your  Spanish 

fly! 

It 's  mighty  easy  ordering  when  you  please, 
Infusi  sennce  capiat  uncias  ires  • 
It 's  mighty   different  when   you   quackle 

down 

Your  own  three  ounces  of  the  liquid  brown. 
Pilula,  pulvis,  —  pleasant  words  enough, 
When  other  throats  receive   the  shocking 

stuff; 
But   oh,    what   flattery   can    disguise    the 

groan 
That  meets  the  gulp  which  sends  it  through 

your  own  ! 


THE   TWO    ARMIES 


59 


Be    gentle,   then,  though   Art's  unsparing 

rules 
Give    you   the   handling   of   her    sharpest 

tools; 

Use  them  not  rashly,  —  sickness  is  enough; 
Be  always  "ready," but  be  never  "rough." 

Of  all  the  ills  that  suffering  man  endures, 
The  largest  fraction  liberal  Nature  cures; 
Of  those  remaining,  't  is  the  smallest  part 
Yields  to  the  efforts  of  judicious  Art; 
But  simple  Kindness,  kneeling  by  the  bed 
To  shift  the  pillow  for  the  sick  man's  head, 
Give  the  fresh  draught  to  cool  the  lips  that 

burn, 
Fan  the    hot    brow,    the    weary    frame    to 

turn, — 

Kindness,  untutored  by  our  grave  M.  D.'s, 
But  Nature's  graduate,  when  she  schools  to 

please, 
Wins   back  more  sufferers  with  her  voice 

and  smile 
Than  all    the  trumpery   in  the  druggist's 

pile. 

Once  more,  be  quiet :  coming  up  the  stair, 
Don't  be  a  plantigrade,  a  human  bear, 
But,  stealing  softly  on  the  silent  toe, 
lleach  the  sick  chamber  ere  you  're   heard 

below. 
Whatever  changes  there  may  greet  your 

eyes, 

Let  not  your  looks  proclaim  the  least  sur 
prise; 

It 's  not  your  business  by  your  face  to  show 
All  that  your    patient   docs    not    want    to 

know; 

Nay,  use  your  optics  with  considerate  care, 
And  don't  abuse  your  privilege  to  stare. 
But  if  your  eyes  may  probe  him  overmuch, 
Beware  still  further  how  you  rudely  touch; 
Don't  clutch  his  carpus  in  your  icy  fist, 
But  warm  your  ringers  ere   you   take  the 

wrist. 

If  the  poor  victim  needs  must  be  percussed, 
Don't  make  an  anvil  of  his  aching  bust ; 
(Doctors  exist  within  a  hundred  miles 
Who  thump  a  thorax  as  they  'd  hammer 

piles ;)_ 

If  you  must  listen  to  his  doubtful  chest, 
Catch  the  essentials,  and  ignore  the  rest. 
Spare  him;  the  sufferer  wants  of  you  and 

art 

A  track  to  steer  by,  not  a  finished  chart. 
So  of  your  questions  :  don't  in  mercy  try 


To  pump  your  patient  absolutely  dry  ; 
He  's  not  a  mollusk  squirming  in  a  dish, 
You  're  not  Agassiz,  and  he  's  not  a  tish. 

And  last,  not  least,  in  each  perplexing  case, 
Learn  the  sweet  magic  of  a  cheerful  face • 
Not  always  smiling,  but  at  least  serene, 
When  grief  and  anguish  cloud  the  anxious 

scene. 
Each  look,  each  movement,  every  word  and 

tone, 
Should  tell  your  patient    you    are    all    his 

own ; 

Not  the  mere  artist,  purchased  to  attend, 
But  the  warm,  ready,  self-forgetting  friend, 
Whose  genial  visit  in  itself  combines 
The  best  of  cordials,  tonics,  anodynes. 

Such  is  the  visit  that  from  day  to  day 
Sheds  o'er  my  chamber  its  benignant  ray. 
I  give  his  health,  who  never  cared  to  claim 
Her  babbling  homage  from  the  tongue  of 

Fame ; 
Unmoved  by  praise,  he  stands  by  all  con- 

fest, 
The  truest,  noblest,  wisest,  kindest,  best. 


THE    TWO    ARMIES 

[Written  for  and  road  at  a  mooting'  of  the 
Massachusetts  Medical  Society  in  1S.",S. 

In  printing  these  verses  in  the  Autocrat, 
where  they  are  referred  to  the  '*  Professor."  the 
poet  says :  ''  He  introduced  them  with  a  few 
remarks,  lie  told  me,  of  which  the  only  one  he 
remembered  was  this :  that  he  had  rather 
write  a  single  line  which  one  among'  them 
should  think  worth  remembering1  than  .set  them 
all  laughing'  with  a  string  of  epigrams."] 

As  Life's  unending  column  pours, 
Two  marshalled  hosts  are  seen,  — 

Two  armies  on  the  trampled  shores 
That  Death  flows  black  between. 

One  marches  to  the  drum-beat's  roll, 
The  wide-mouthed  clarion's  bray, 

And  bears  upon  a  crimson  scroll, 
"  Our  glory  is  to  slay." 

One  moves  in  silence  by  the  stream, 
With  sad,  yet  watchful  eyes. 

Calm  as  the  patient  planet's  gleam 
That  walks  the  clouded  skies. 


6o 


MEDICAL   POEMS 


Along  its  front  no  sabres  shine, 

No  blood-red  pennons  wave  ; 
Its  banner  bears  the  single  line, 

"  Our  duty  is  to  save." 

For  those  no  death-bed's  lingering  shade ; 

At  Honor's  trumpet-call, 
With  knitted  brow  and  lifted  blade 

In  Glory's  arms  they  fall. 

For  these  no  clashing  falchions  bright, 

No  stirring  battle-cry  ; 
The  bloodless  stabber  calls  by  night,  — 

Each  answers,  "  Here  ana  I !  " 

For  those  the  sculptor's  laurelled  bust, 

The  builder's  marble  piles, 
The  anthems  pealing  o'er  their  dust 

Through  long  cathedral  aisles. 

For  these  the  blossom- sprinkled  turf 

That  floods  the  lonely  graves 
When  Spring  rolls  in  her  sea-green  surf 

In  flowery-foaming  waves. 

Two  paths  lead  upward  from  below, 

And  angels  wait  above, 
Who  count  each  burning  life-drop's  flow, 

Each  falling  tear  of  Love. 

Though  from  the  Hero's  bleeding  breast 

Her  pulses  Freedom  drew, 
Though  the  white  lilies  in  her  crest 

Sprang  from  that  scarlet  dew,  — 

While  Valor's  haughty  champions  wait 

Till  all  their  scars  are  shown, 
Love  walks  unchallenged  through  the  gate, 

To  sit  beside  the  Throne  ! 


THE    STETHOSCOPE    SONG 

A   PROFESSIONAL  BALLAD 

THERE  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town, 
He  bought  him  a  stethoscope  nice  and 

new, 
All    mounted    and   finished    and   polished 

down, 
With  an  ivory  cap  and  a  stopper  too. 

It  happened  a  spider  within  did  crawl, 
And  spun  him  a  web  of  ample  size, 

Wherein  there  chanced  one  day  to  fall 
A  couple  of  very  imprudent  flies. 


The  first  was  a  bottle-fly,  big  and  blue, 
The  second  was  smaller,  and  thin  and 
long  ; 

So  there  was  a  concert  between  the  two, 
Like  an  octave  flute  and  a  tavern  gong. 

Now  being  from  Paris  but  recently, 

This  fine  young  man  would  show  his  skill  ; 

And  so  they  gave  him,  his  hand  to  try, 
A  hospital  patient  extremely  ill. 

Some  said  that  his  liver  was  short  of  bile, 
And  some  that  his  heart  was  over  size, 

While  some  kept  arguing,  all  the  while, 
He  was  crammed  with  tubercles  up  to  his 
eyes. 

This  fine  young  man  then  up  stepped  he, 
And  all  the  doctors  made  a  pause  ; 

Said  he,  The  man  must  die,  you  see, 
By  the  fifty-seventh  of  Louis's  laws. 

But  since  the  case  is  a  desperate  one, 
To  explore  his  chest  it  may  be  well  ; 

For  if  he  should  die  and  it  were  not  done, 
You  know  the  autopsy  would  not  tell. 

Then  out  his  stethoscope  he  took, 
And  on  it  placed  his  curious  ear  ; 

Mon  Dieu  !  said  he,  with  a  knowing  look, 
Why,    here    is  a   sound   that 's   mighty 
queer  ! 

The  bourdonnement  is  very  clear,  — 
Amphoric  buzzing,  as  I  'm  alive  ! 

Five  doctors  took  their  turn  to  hear  ; 
Amphoric  buzzing,  said  all  the  five. 

There's  empyema  beyond  a  doubt  ; 

We  '11  plunge  a  trocar  in  his  side. 
The  diagnosis  was  made  out,  — 

They  tapped  the  patient  ;  so  he  died. 

Now  such  as  hate  new-fashioned  toys 
Began  to  look  extremely  glum  ; 

They  said  that  rattles  were  made  for  boys, 
And  vowed  that  his  buzzing  was  all  a 
hum. 

There  was  an  old  lady  had  long  been  sick, 
And    what    was   the    matter   none   did 

know  : 
Her  pulse  was  slow,  though  her  tongue  was 

quick  ; 
To  her  this  knowing  youth  must  go. 


EXTRACTS    FROM   A   MEDICAL   POEM 


61 


So  there  the  nice  old  lady  sat, 

With  phials  and  boxes  all  in  a  row  ; 

She  asked  the  young  doctor  what  he  was 

at, 
To  thump   her  aud   tumble  her    ruffles 


Xinv,  when  the  stethoscope  came  out, 
The  Hies  began  to  buzz  and  whiz: 

Oh,  ho  !  the  matter  is  clear,  no  doubt; 
An  aneurism  there  plainly  is. 

The  bruit  de  rape  and  the  bruit  de  scie 
And  the  bruit  de  diable  are  all  combined; 

How  happy  Bouillaud  would  be, 
If  he  a  case  like  this  could  find  ! 

Xow,  when  the  neighboring  doctors  found 
A  case  so  rare  had  been  descried, 

They  every  day  her  ribs  did  pound 
In  squads  of  twenty  ;  so  she  died. 

Then  six  young  damsels,  slight  and  frail, 
Received  this  kind  young  doctor's  cares; 

They  all  were  getting  slim  and  pale, 
And  short  of  breath  on  mounting  stairs. 

They  all  made    rhymes  with  "  sighs  "  and 

"  skies," 
And  loathed  their  puddings  and  buttered 

rolls, 

And  dieted,  much  to  their  friends'  surprise, 
On    pickles   and    pencils  and  chalk  and 
coals. 

So  fast  their  little  hearts  did  bound, 

The  frightened  insects  buzzed  the  more; 

So  over  all  their  chests  he  found 
The  rale  sijjiant  and  the  rale  sunore. 

He  shook   his    head.     There  's  grave    dis 
ease,  — 

I  greatly  fear  you  all  must  die; 
A  slight  post-mortem,  if  you  please, 

Surviving  friends  would  gratify. 

The  six  young  damsels  wept  aloud, 
Which  so  prevailed  on  six  young  men 

That  each  his  honest  love  avowed, 
Whereat  they  all  got  well  again. 

This  poor  young  man  was  all  aghast; 

The  price  of  stethoscopes  came  down; 
And  so  lie  wras  reduced  at  last 

To  practise  in  a  country  town. 


The  doctors  being  very  sore, 

A  stethoscope  they  did  devise 
That  had  a  rammer  to  clear  the  bore, 

With  a  knob  at  the  end  to  kill  the  flies. 

Xow  use  your  ears,  all  you  that  can, 
But  don't  forget  to  mind  your  eyes, 

Or  you   may  be  cheated,  like  this  young 

man, 
By  a  couple  of  silly,  abnormal  flies. 


EXTRACTS     FROM    A     MEDICAL 
POEM 

THE    STA15ILITV    OF    SCIENCE 

THE    feeble    sea-birds,    blinded    in   the 

storms, 
On  some    tail  lighthouse  dash  their  little 

forms, 
And   the   rude    granite    scatters    for  their 

pains 
Those  small  deposits  that  were  meant  for 

brains. 

Yet  the  proud  fabric  in  the  morning's  sun 
Stands  all  unconscious  of  the  mischief  done; 
Still  the  red  beacon  pours  its  evening  rays 
For  the  lost  pilot  with  as  full  a  blaze,  — 
Xay,  shines,  all  radiance,  o'er  the  scattered 

fleet 
Of  gulls  and  boobies  brainless  at  its  feet. 

I  tell  their  fate,  though  courtesy  disclaims 
To  call  our  kind  by  such  ungentle  names  ; 
Yet,  if  your  rashness  bid  you  vainly  dare, 
Think  of   their  doom,  ye   simple,  and  be 
ware  ! 

See  where  aloft  its  hoary  forehead  rears 
The  towering  pride    of   twice  a  thousand 

years  ! 

Far,  far  below  the  vast  incumbent  pile 
Sleeps  the  gray  rock  from  art's  yEgean  isle 
Its  massive  courses,  circling  as  they  rise, 
Swell  from  the  waves  to  mingle  with  the 

skies ; 

There  every  quarry  lends  its  marble  spoil, 
And    clustering  ages   blend    their  common 

toil; 
The  Greek,  the  Roman,  reared  its  ancient 

walls, 

The  silent  Arab  arched  its  mystic  halls  ; 
In    that    fair    niche,   by    countless    billows 

laved, 

Trace    the   deep   lines   that   Sydenham  en 
graved; 


62 


MEDICAL   POEMS 


On  yon  broad  front  that  breasts  the  chang 
ing  swell, 

Mark  where  the  ponderous  sledge  of  Hun 
ter  fell; 

By  that  square  buttress  look  where  Louis 
stands, 

The  stone  yet  warm  from  his  uplifted 
hands ; 

And  say,  O  Science,  shall  thy  life-blood 
freeze, 

When  fluttering  folly  flaps  on  walls  like 
these  ? 

A   PORTRAIT 

Thoughtful  in  youth,  but  not  austere  in 

age; 
Calm,  but  not  cold,  and  cheerful  though  a 

sage; 

Too  true  to  flatter  and  too  kind  to  sneer, 
And  only  just  when  seemingly  severe; 
So  gently  blending  courtesy  and  art 
That     wisdom's     lips    seemed    borrowing 

friendship's  heart. 
Taught  by  the  sorrows  that  his   age  had 

known 

In  others'  trials  to  forget  his  own, 
As  hour  by  hour  his   lengthened  day  de 
clined, 

A  sweeter  radiance  lingered  o'er  his  mind. 
Cold   were  the   lips  that  spoke  his   early 

praise, 

And  hushed  the  voices  of  his  morning  days, 
Yet    the    same    accents   dwelt    on    every 

tongue, 
And  love  renewing  kept  him  ever  young. 


A   SENTIMENT 

'O  /Bios  fipaxvs,  — life  is  but  a  song; 

'H  rexvrl  po-Kpt,  —  art  is  wondrous  long; 

Yet  to  the  wise  her  paths  are  ever  fair, 

And  Patience  smiles,  though  Genius  may 
despair. 

Give  us  but  knowledge,  though  by  slow 
degrees, 

And  blend  our  toil  with  moments  bright  as 
these; 

Let  Friendship's  accents  cheer  our  doubt 
ful  way, 

And  Love's  pure  planet  lend  its  guiding 
ray, — 

Our  tardy  Art  shall  wear  an  angel's  wings, 

And  life  shall  lengthen  with  the  joy  it 
brings  ! 


A    POEM 

FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  AMERICAN 
MEDICAL  ASSOCIATION  AT  NEW  YORK, 
MAY  5,  1853 

I  HOLD  a  letter  in  my  hand,  — 

A  flattering  letter,  more  's  the  pity,  — 
By  some  contriving  junto  planned, 

And  signed  per  order  of  Committee. 
It  touches  every  tenderest  spot,  — 

My  patriotic  predilections, 
My  well-known  —  something  —  don't  ask 
what,  — 

My  poor  old  songs,  my  kind  affections. 

They  make  a  feast  on  Thursday  next, 

And  hope  to  make  the  f easters  merry ; 
They   own   they  're  something    more   per 
plexed 

For  poets  than  for  port  and  sherry. 
They  want  the  men  of  —  (word  torn  out) ; 

Our  friends  will  come  with  anxious  faces, 
(To  see  our  blankets  off,  no  doubt, 

And  trot  us  out  and  show  our  paces.) 

They  hint  that  papers  by  the  score 

Are  rather  musty  kind  of  rations,  — 
They  don't  exactly  mean  a  bore, 

But  only  trying  to  the  patience; 
That  such  as  —  you  know  who  I  mean  — 

Distinguished     for   their  —  what     d'  ye 

call  'em  — 
Should  bring  the  dews  of  Hippocrene 

To  sprinkle  on  the  faces  solemn. 

—  The  same  old  story :  that 's  the  chaff 

To  catch  the  birds  that  sing  the  ditties; 
Upon  my  soul,  it  makes  me  laugh 

To  read  these  letters  from  Committees  ! 
They  're  all  so  loving  and  so  fair,  — 

All  for  your  sake  such  kind  compunction ; 
'T  would  save  your  carriage  half  its  wear 

To  touch  its  wheels  with  such  an   unc 
tion  ! 

Why,  who  am  I,  to  lift  me  here 

And  beg  such  learned  folk  to  listen, 
To  ask  a  smile,  or  coax  a  tear 

Beneath  these  stoic  lids  to  glisten  ? 
As  well  might  some  arterial  thread 

Ask  the  whole  frame  to  feel  it  gushing, 
While  throbbing  fierce  from  heel  to  head 

The  vast  aortic  tide  was  rushing;. 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE,    M.  D. 


As  well  some  hair-like  nerve  might  strain 

To  set  its  special  streamlet  going, 
While      through     the     myriad-channelled 
brain 

The  burning  flood  of  thought  was  flowing; 
Or  trembling  fibre  strive  to  keep 

The  springing  haunches  gathered  shorter, 
While  the  scourged  racer,  leap  on  leap, 

Was    stretching    through    the    last   hot 
quarter  ! 

Ah  me  !  you  take  the  bud  that  came 

Self-sown  in  your  poor  garden's  borders, 
And  hand  it  to  the  stately  dame 

That  florists  breed  for,  all  she  orders. 
She  thank*  you,  —  it  was  kindly  meant  — 

(/I  pale  affair,  not  worth  the  keeping,)  — 
Good  morning-  and  your  bud  is  sent 

To  join  the  tea-leaves  used  for  sweeping. 

Not  always  so,  kind  hearts  and  true,  — 

For  such  I  know  are  round  me  beating; 
Is  not  the  bud  I  offer  you, 

Fresh  gathered  for  the  hour  of  meeting, 
Pale  though  its  outer  leaves  may  be, 

Rose-red  in  all  its  inner  petals  ?  — 
Where  the  warm  life  we  cannot  sec  — 

The  life  of  love  that  gave  it  — settles. 

We  meet  from  regions  far  away, 

Like  rills  from  distant  mountains  stream 
ing; 
The  sun  is  on  Francisco's  bay, 

O'er  Chesapeake  the  lighthouse  gleaming; 
While  summer  girds  the  still  bayou 

In  chains  of  bloom,  her  bridal  token, 
Monadnock  sees  the  sky  grow  blue, 

His  crystal  bracelet  yet  unbroken. 

Yet  Nature  bears  the  selfsame  heart 

Beneath  her  russet-mantled  bosom 
As  where,  with  burning  lips  apart, 

She  breathes  and  white  magnolias  blos 
som  ; 
The  selfsame  founts  her  chalice  fill 

With  showery  sunlight  running  over, 
On  fiery  plain  and  frozen  hill, 

On  myrtle-beds  and  fields  of  clover. 

I  give  you  Home  !  its  crossing  lines 

United  in  one  golden  suture, 
And  showing  every  day  that  shines 

The  present  growing  to  the  future,  — 
A  flag  that  bears  a  hundred  stars 

In  one  bright  ring,  with  love  for  centre, 


Fenced  round  with  white  and  crimson  bars 
No  prowling  treason  dares  to  enter  ! 

O  brothers,  home  may  be  a  word 

To  make  affection's  living  treasure, 
The  wave  an  angel  might  have  stirred, 

A  stagnant  pool  of  selfish  pleasure  ; 
HOME  !  It  is  where  the  day-star  springs 

And  where  the  evening  sun  reposes, 
Where'er  the  eagle  spreads  his  wings, 

From  northern  pines  to  southern  roses  ! 

A    SENTIMENT 

[Distributed  among1  the  members  gathered 
at  the  meeting  of  the  American  Medical  As 
sociation,  in  Philadelphia,  May  1,  IS.Vj.] 

A  TRIPLE  health  to  Friendship,  Science, 

Art, 
From  heads  and  hands  that  own  a  common 

heart  ! 

Each  in  its  turn  the  others'  willing  slave, 
Each  in  its  season  strong  to  heal  and  save. 

Friendship's  blind  service,  in  the  hour  of 

need, 
Wipes   the  pale  face,  and    lets  the  victim 

bleed. 

Science  must  stop  to  reason  and  explain; 
ART  claps  his  finger  on  the  streaming  vein. 

But  Art's  brief  memory  fails  the  hand  at 

last  : 

Then  SCIENCE  lifts  the  flambeau  of  the  past. 
When  both  their  equal  impotence  deplore, 
When  Learning  sighs,  and  Skill  can  do  no 

more, 
The  tear  of  FRIENDSHIP  pours  its  heavenly 

balm. 
And   soothes   the  pang  no    anodyne    may 

calm  ! 


RIP  VAN    WINKLE,  M.  D. 

AX  AFTER-DINNER  PRESCRIPTION  TAKEX 
V>\  THE  .MASSACHUSETTS  MEDICAL  SO 
CIETY,  AT  THEIR  MEETING  HELD  MAY 
25,  1870 

CANTO  FIRST 

OLD  Rip  Van  Winkle  had  a  grandson 

Rip, 
Of  the  paternal  block  a  genuine  chip,  — 


64 


MEDICAL   POEMS 


A  lazy,  sleepy,  curious  kind  of  chap ; 
He,  like  his  grandsire,  took  a  mighty  nap, 
Whereof  the  story  I  propose  to  tell 
In  two  brief  cantos,  if  you  listen  well. 

The  times  were  hard  when  Rip  to  man 
hood  grew; 
They  always  will  be  when  there  's  work  to 

do. 
He    tried   at    farming,  —  found   it   rather 

slow,  — 
And  then    at   teaching — what   he  didn't 

know; 
Then  took  to   hanging   round   the   tavern 

bars, 

To  frequent  toddies  and  long-nine  cigars, 
Till  Dame  Van  Winkle,  out  of   patience, 

vexed 
With  preaching  homilies,  having  for  their 

text 
A  mop,   a  broomstick,  aught  that  might 

avail 

To  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale, 
Exclaimed,  "  I  have  it !     Now,  then,  Mr. 

V.  ! 
He  's  good  for  something,  —  make  him  an 

M.  D.  ! » 

The  die  was  cast;  the  youngster  was 
content  ; 

They  packed  his  shirts  and  stockings,  and 
he  went. 

How  hard  he  studied  it  were  vain  to  tell  ; 

He  drowsed  through  Wistar,  nodded  over 
Bell, 

Slept  sound  with  Cooper,  snored  aloud  on 
Good; 

Heard  heaps  of  lectures,  —  doubtless  under 
stood, — 

A  constant  listener,  for  he  did  not  fail 

To  carve  his  name  on  every  bench  and  rail. 

Months  grew  to  years  ;  at  last  he  counted 

three, 

And  Rip  Van  Winkle  found  himself  M.  D. 
Illustrious  title  !  in  a  gilded  frame 
He  set  the  sheepskin  with  his  Latin  name, 
RIPUM  VAN  WINKLUM,  QUEM  we  —  SCIMUS 

—  know 

IDONEUM  ESSE  —  to  do  so  and  so. 
He  hired  an  office  ;  soon  its  walls  displayed 
His  new  diploma  and  his  stock  in  trade, 
A  mighty  arsenal  to  subdue  disease, 
Of  various  names,  whereof  I  mention  these  : 
Lancets  and  bougies,  great  and  little  squirt, 


Rhubarb  and  Senna,  Snakeroot,  Thorough- 
wort, 
Ant.  Tart.,  Vin.  Colch.,  Pil.  Cochin,  and 

Black  Drop, 
Tinctures   of   Opium,   Gentian,    Henbane, 

Hop, 

Pulv.  Ipecacuanha?,  which  for  lack 
Of  breath  to  utter  men  call  Ipecac, 
Camphor  and  Kino,  Turpentine,  Tolu, 
Cubebs,  "  Copeevy, "  Vitriol,  —  white   and 

blue,  — 
Fennel  and   Flaxseed,  Slippery  Elm   and 

Squill, 

And  roots  of  Sassafras,  and  "  Sassaf  rill," 
Brandy,  —  for  colics,  —  Pinkroot,  death  on 

worms,  — 

Valerian,  calmer  of  hysteric  squirms, 
Musk,  Assafostida,  the  resinous  gum 
Named  from  its  odor,  —  well,  it  does  smell 

some,  — 

Jalap,  that  works  not  wisely,  but  too  well, 
Ten  pounds  of  Bark  and  six  of  Calomel. 

For  outward  griefs  he  had  an  ample  store, 
Some  twenty  jars  and  gallipots,  or  more: 
Ceratum  simplex  —  housewives  oft  compile 
The  same  at  home,  and   call  it  "  wax  and 

ile;" 

Unguentum  resinosum  —  change  its  name, 
The  "  drawing  salve  "  of  many  an   ancient 

dame ; 

Argenti  Nitras,  also  Spanish  flies, 
Whose   virtue   makes  the   water-bladders 

rise  — 

(Some  say  that  spread  upon  a  toper's  skin 
They  draw  no  water,  only  rum  or  gin)  ; 
Leeches,  sweet  vermin  !  don't  they  charm 

the  sick  ? 
And    Sticking-plaster  —  how   it    hates    to 

stick  ! 

Emplastrum.  Ferri  —  ditto  Picis,  Pitch; 
Washes  and  Powders,  Brimstone  for  the  — 

which, 

Scabies  or  Psora,  is  thy  chosen  name 
Since    Hahnemann's  goose-quill  scratched 

thee  into  fame, 
Proved  thee  the  source  of  every  nameless 

ill, 

Whose  sole  specific  is  a  moonshine  pill, 
Till  saucy  Science,  with  a  quiet  grin, 
Held  up  the  Acarus,  crawling  on  a  pin  ? 
—  Mountains     have     labored     and     have 

brought  forth  mice  : 
The  Dutchman's  theory  hatched  a  brood  of 

—  twice 


RIP   VAN  WINKLE,    M.  D. 


I  Ye  Nvellnigh  said  them  —  words  unfitting 

quite 
For  these  fair  precinets  and  for  ears  polite. 

The  surest  foot  may  chance  at  last  to 
slip, 

And  so  at  length  it  proved  with  Doctor 
Rip. 

One  full-sized  bottle  stood  upon  the  shelf, 

Which  held  the  medicine  that  he  took  him 
self  ; 

Whate'er  the  reason,  it  must  be  confessed 

lie  filled  that  bottle  oftener  than  the  rest; 

What  drug  it  held  I  don't  presume  to 
know  — 

The  gilded  label  said  «  Elixir  Pro." 

One  day  the  Doctor  found  the  bottle 
full, 

And,  being  thirsty,  took  a  vigorous  pull, 

Put  back  the  "  Elixir  "  where  't  was  al 
ways  found, 

And  had  old  Dobbin  saddled  and  brought 
round. 

—  You  know  those  old-time  rhubarb-colored 


That    carried    Doctors    and    their    saddle- 


Sagacious  beasts  !  they  stopped    at  every 

place 
Where    blinds    were    shut — knew    every 

patient's  case  — 
Looked  tip  and  thought  —  The  baby  's  in  a 

fit  — 
That    won't    last    long  —  he  '11    soon     be 

through  with  it; 
But  shook  their  heads  before  the  knockered 

door 

Where  some  old  lady  told  the  story  o'er 
Whose  endless  stream  of  tribulation  Hows 
For  gastric  griefs  and  peristaltic  woes. 

W'hat  jack-o'-lantern  led   him  from    his 


And  where   it    led   him,   it   were  hard    to 


Enough  that  wandering  many  a  weary  mile 
Through  paths  the    mountain    sheep    trod 

single  file, 
O'ercome    by    feelings    such    as    patients 

know 

Who  dose  too  freely  with  "  Elixir  Pro.," 
He  tumbl  —  dismounted,  slightlv  in  a  heap, 
And   lay,  promiscuous,    lapped    in    balmy 

sleep. 


Night  followed  night,  and  day  succeeded 

day, 
But  snoring    still    the    slumbering    Doctor 

lay. 
Poor  Dobbin,  starving,    thought    upon  his 

stall, 
And  straggled  homeward,  saddle-bags  and 

all. 

The  village  people  hunted  all  around, 
But    Rip   was    missing,  —  never    could    be 

found. 
"  Drownded,"    they   guessed;  —  for    more 

than  half  a  year 
The  pouts  and  eels  did  taste  uncommon 

queer; 

Some  said  of  apple-brandy  —  other  some 
Found  a  strong  flavor  of  New  England  rum. 

Why  can't  a  fellow  hear  the  fine  things 

said 

About  a  fellow  when  a  fellow 's  dead  ? 
The    best    of    doctors  —  so   the    press    de 
clared  — 

A  public  blessing  while  his  life  was  spared, 
True  to  his  country,  bounteous  to  the  poor, 
In  all  things  temperate,  sober,  just,  and 

pure  ; 

The  best  of  husbands  !  echoed  Mrs.  Van, 
And  set  her  cap  to  catch  another  man. 

So  ends  this  Canto  —  if  it 's  f/natitum  .s1;///'., 
We  '11  just  stop   here  and   say  we  Ye  had 

enough, 
And   leave    poor    Rip    to   sleep  for  thirty 

years  ; 

I  grind  the  organ  —  if  you  lend  your  ears 
To  hear  my  second  Canto,  after  that 
We  '11   send  around   the    monkey  with   the 

hat. 

CANTO   SKCONI) 

So  thirty  years  had  passed  —  but  not  a 

word 

In  all  that  time  of  Rip  was  ever  heard; 
The  world  wagged  on  —  it  never  does  go 

back  — 

The  widow  Van  was  now  the  widow  Mac  - — 
France  was  an  Empire  —  Andrew  J.  was 


And  Abraham  L.  was  reigning  in  his  stead. 
Four  murderous  years  had  passed  in  savage 

strife, 

Yet  still  the  rebel  hold  his  bloody  knife. 
—  At  last  one  morning  —  who  forgets  the 

day 


66 


MEDICAL   POEMS 


When  the   black   cloud  of   war   dissolved 

away  ?  — 
The  joyous   tidings  spread  o'er  land  and 

sea, 
Rebellion  done  for  !    Grant   has  captured 

Lee! 
Up  every  flagstaff   sprang  the   Stars  and 

Stripes  — 
Out  rushed  the  Extras  wild  with  mammoth 

types  — 

Down  went  the  laborer's  hod,  the  school 
boy's  book  — 
"  Hooraw  !  "  he  cried,  "  the  rebel  army  's 

took  ! " 
Ah  !  what  a  time  !  the  folks  all  mad  with 

J°J: 
Each  fond,   pale  mother  thinking  of   her 

boy; 
Old  gray-haired  fathers  meeting  —  "  Have 

—  you  —  heard  ?  " 

And  then  a  choke  — and  not  another  word  ; 
Sisters  all  smiling  —  maidens,  not  less  dear, 
In  trembling  poise  between  a  smile  and 

tear; 
Poor  Bridget  thinking  how  she  '11  stuff  the 

plums 

In  that  big  cake  for  Johnny  when  he  comes; 
Cripples  afoot  ;  rheumatics  on  the  jump; 
Old   girls   so   loving   they   could   hug  the 

pump  ; 
Guns   going   bang !    from   every  fort  and 

ship  ; 
They  banged  so  loud  at  last  they  wakened 

Rip. 

I  spare  the  picture,  how  a  man  appears 
Who  's  been  asleep  a  score  or  two  of  years  ; 
You  all  have  seen  it  to  perfection  done 
By  Joe  Van  Wink  —  I  mean  Rip  Jefferson. 
Well,  so  it  was  ;  old  Rip  at  last  came  back, 
Claimed  his  old  wife  —  the  present  widow 

Mac  — 

Had  his  old  sign  regilded,  and  began 
To  practise  physic  on  the  same  old  plan. 

Some  weeks  went  by  —  it  was  not  long 

to  wait  — 
And  "  please  to  call  "  grew  frequent  on  the 

slate. 

He  had,  in  fact,  an  ancient,  mildewed  air, 
A  long  gray   beard,  a   plenteous  lack  of 

hair,  — 

The  musty  look  that  always  recommends 
Your  good  old  Doctor  to  his  ailing  friends. 
—  Talk  of  your  science  !  after  all  is  said 


There  's  nothing  like  a  bare  and  shiny  head ; 
Age  lends  the  graces  that  are  sure  to  please  ; 
Eolks  want  their  Doctors  mouldy,  like  their 
cheese. 

So  Rip  began  to  look  at  people's  tongues 
And  thump  their  briskets  (called  it  "  sound 

their  lungs  "), 
Brushed  up  his  knowledge  smartly  as  he 

could, 

Read  in  old  Cullen  and  in  Doctor  Good. 
The  town  was  healthy  ;  for  a  month  or  two 
He  gave  the  sexton  little  work  to  do. 

About  the  time  when  dog-day  heats  be 
gin, 

The  summer's  usual  maladies  set  in ; 

With  autumn  evenings  dysentery  came, 

And  dusky  typhoid  lit  his  smouldering 
flame; 

The  blacksmith  ailed,  the  carpenter  was 
down, 

And  half  the  children  sickened  in  the  town. 

The  sexton's  face  grew  shorter  than  be 
fore — 

The  sexton's  wife  a  brand-new  bonnet 
wore  — 

Things  looked  quite  serious  —  Death  had 
got  a  grip 

On  old  and  young,  in  spite  of  Doctor  Rip. 

And  now  the   Squire  was  taken  with  a 

chill  — 

Wife  gave  "  hot-drops  "  —  at  night  an  In 
dian  pill; 
Next  morning,  feverish  —  bedtime,  getting 

worse  — 

Out  of  his  head  —  began  to  rave  and  curse; 
The    Doctor    sent   for  —  double    quick   he 

came  : 

Ant.   Tart.  gran,  duo,  and  repeat  the  same 
If  no et  cetera.     Third  day  —  nothing  new; 
Percussed  his  thorax  till 't  was  black  and 

blue  — 
Lung-fever  threatening  —  something  of  the 

sort  — 
Out  with  the  lancet  —  let  him  bleed  —  a 

quart  — 

Ten  leeches  next  —  then  blisters  to  his  side; 
Ten  grains  of  calomel  ;  just  then  he  died. 

The  Deacon  next  required  the  Doctor's 

care  — 

Took  cold  by  sitting  in  a  draught  of  air  — 
Pains  in  the  back,  but  what  the  matter  is 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE,    M.  D. 


67 


Xot  quite  so  clear,  —  wife  calls  it  "  rheu- 

matiz." 

Hubs  back  with  flannel  — gives  him  some 
thing  hot  — 
"  Ah  !  "  says  the  Deacon,  "  that  goes  nigh 

the  spot." 

Xext  day  a  rigor  —  "  Run,  my  little  man, 
And  say  the  Deacon  sends  for  Doctor  Van." 
The  Doctor  came  —  percussion  as  before, 
Thumping  and  banging  till  his    ribs  were 

sore  — 

"  Right  side  the  flattest  "  —  then  more  vig 
orous  raps  — 
"  Fever  —  that 's    certain  —  pleurisy,    per- 


A   quart    of   blood  will   ease  the  pain,  no 

doubt, 

Ten  leeches  next  will  help  to  suck  it  out, 
Then  clap  a  blister  on  the  painful  part  — 
But  first  two  grains  of  Antimonium  Tart. 
Last  witli  a  dose  of  cleansing  calomel 
Unload  the  portal  system- — (that  sounds 

well  !)  " 

But    when   the    selfsame  remedies  were 

tried, 
As  all  the   village  knew,   the    Squire  had 

died; 

The  neighbors  hinted:  "  This  will  never  do; 
He's    killed    the    Squire  —  he  '11    kill    the 

Deacon  too." 

Xow  when  a  doctor's  patients  are  per 
plexed, 

A  consultation  conies  in  order  next  — 
You  know  what  that  is  ?   In  a  certain  place 
Meet  certain  doctors  to  discuss  a  case 
And  other  matters,  such  as  weather,  crops, 
Potatoes,  pumpkins,  lager-beer,  and  hops. 
For  what 's  the  use  !  —  there  's  little  to  be 

said. 
Nine   times   in   ten   your  man  's  as  good  as 

dead ; 

At  best  a  talk  (the  secret  to  disclose) 
Where  three  men  guess  and  sometimes  one 
man  knows. 

The  counsel  summoned  came  without  de 
lay  — 

Young  Doctor  Green  and  shrewd  old  Doc 
tor  Gray  — 

They  heard  the  story  —  "  Bleed  !  "  says 
Doctor  Green, 

"That's  downright  murder  !  cut  his  throat, 
you  mean  ! 


Leeches  !  the  reptiles  !  Why,  for  pity's 
sake, 

Not  try  an  adder  or  a  rattlesnake  ? 

Blisters  !  Why  bless  you,  they  're  against 
the  law  — 

It 's  rank  assault  and  battery  if  they  draw  ! 

Tartrate  of  Antimony  !  shade  of  Luke, 

Stomachs  turn  pale  at  thought  of  such  re 
buke  ! 

The  portal  system  !  What 's  the  man 
about  ? 

Unload  your  nonsense  !  Calomel 's  played 
out  ! 

You  've  been  asleep  —  you  'd  better  sleep 


Till  some  one  calls  you." 

"  Stop  !  "  says  Doctor  Gray  — 
••  The  story  is  you  slept  for  thirty  years; 
With  brother  Green,  I  own  that  it  appears 
You  must  have  slumbered   most   amazing 

sound; 
But  sleep  once  more  till  thirty  years  come 

round, 

You  '11  find  the  lancet  in  its  honored  place, 
Leeches  and  blisters  rescued  from  disgrace, 
Your  drugs  redeemed  from  fashion's  pass 
ing  scorn, 
And  counted  safe  to  give  to  babes  unborn." 

Poor  sleepy  Rip.  M.  M.  S.  S.,  M.  D., 
A  puzzled,  serious,  saddened  man  was  he; 
Home  from  the  Deacon's  house  he  plodded 


And  filled  one  bumper  of  "  Elixir  Pro." 
"  Good-by,"  he   faltered,  •' Mrs.    Van,    my 

dear  ! 
I'm  going  to  sleep,  but  wake  me  once  a 

year; 

I  don't  like  bleaching  in  the  frost  and  dew, 
I  '11  take  the  barn,  if  all  the  same  to  you. 
Just  once  a  year  —  remember  !  no  mistake! 
Cry,  '  Rip   Van    Winkle  !  time  for   you  to 

wake  !  ' 
Watcli  for  the  week  in  May  when  laylocks 

blow, 
For  then  the  Doctors  meet,  and  I  must 

go." 

Just    once    a  year  the  Doctor's    worthy 

dame 
Goes  to  the  barn  and  shouts  her  husband's 

name; 
"Come,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  (giving  him 

a  shake) 


68 


MEDICAL   POEMS 


"  liip !  Rip  Vaii  Winkle  !  time  for  you  to 

wake  ! 
Laylocks   in   blossom  !  't  is  the   month  of 

May  — 

The  Doctors'  meeting  is  this  blessed  day, 
And  come  what  will,  you  know  I  heard  you 

swear 
You  'd  never  miss  it,  but  be  always  there !  " 

And  so  it  is,  as  every  year  comes  round 

Old  Rip  Van  "Winkle  here  is  always  found. 

You  '11  quickly  know  him  by  his  mildewed 
air, 

The  hayseed  sprinkled  through  his  scanty 
hair, 

The  lichens  growing  on  his  rusty  suit  — 

I  've  seen  a  toadstool  sprouting  on  his 
boot  — 

—  Who  says  I  lie  ?  Does  any  man  pre 
sume  ?  — 

Toadstool  !  No  matter  —  call  it  a  mush 
room. 

Where  is  his  seat  ?  He  moves  it  every 
year; 

But  look,  you  '11  find  him,  —  he  is  always 
here,  — 

Perhaps  you  '11  track  him  by  a  whiff  you 
know  — 

A  certain  flavor  of  "  Elixir  Pro." 

Now,  then,  I  give  you  —  as  you  seem  to 

think 
We   can   give    toasts   without   a  drop   to 

drink  — 
Health  to  the  mighty  sleeper,  —  long  live 

he  ! 
Our  brother  Rip,  M.  M.  S.  S.,  M.  D.  ! 


POEM 

READ  AT  THE  DINNER  GIVEN  TO  THE 
AUTHOR  BY  THE  MEDICAL  PROFES 
SION  OF  THE  CITY  OF  NEW  YORK, 
APRIL  12,  1883. 

HAVE  I  deserved   your   kindness  ?     Nay, 

my  friends, 

While  the  fair  banquet  its  illusion  lends 
Let  me  believe  it,  though  the  blood  may 

rush 

And  to  my  cheek  recall  the  maiden  blush 
That  o'er  it  flamed  with  momentary  blaze 
When  first  I  heard  the  honeyed  words  of 

praise; 


Let  me  believe  it  while  the  roses  wear 
Their  bloom   uuwithering   in    the    heated 

ail- 
Too  soon,  too  soon,  their  glowing  leaves 

must  fall, 

The  laughing  echoes  leave  the  silent  hall, 
Joy  drop  his  garland,  turn  his  empty  cup, 
And  weary  Labor  take  his  burden  up, — 
How   weighs   that   burden  they    can    tell 

alone 
Whose  dial  marks  no  moment  as  their  own. 

Am  I  your  creditor  ?     Too  well  I  know 
How  Friendship  pays  the  debt  it  does  not 

owe, 
Shapes    a    poor   semblance   fondly   to   its 

mind, 

Adds  all  the  virtues  that  it  fails  to  find, 
Adorns  with  graces  to  its  heart's  content, 
Borrows   from    love    what    nature    never 

lent, 

Till  what  with  halo,  jewels,  gilding,  paint, 
The  veriest  sinner  deems  himself  a  saint. 
Thus  while  you  pay  these  honors  as  my 

due 

I  owe  my  value's  larger  part  to  you, 
And  in  the  tribute  of  the  hour  I  see 
Not  what  I  am,  but  what  I  ought  to  be. 

Friends  of  the  Muse,  to  you  of  right  belong 
The  first  staid  footsteps  of  my  square-toed 

song; 

Full  well  I  know  the  strong  heroic  line 
Has  lost  its  fashion  since  I  made  it  mine; 
But  there  are  tricks  old  singers  will  not 

learn, 
And  this  grave  measure  still  must  serve 

my  turn. 

So  the  old  bird  resumes  the  selfsame  note 
His   first   young   summer  wakened  in  his 

throat; 

The  selfsame  tune  the  old  canary  sings, 
And   all   unchanged    the   bobolink's  carol 

rings; 
When  the  tired  songsters  of  the  day  arc 

still 
The  thrush  repeats  his   long-remembered 

trill; 

Age  alters  not  the  crow's  persistent  caw, 
The    Yankee's    "Haow,"   the   stammering 

Briton's   "Haw;" 
And  so  the  hand  that  takes  the  lyre  for 

you 
Plays   the   old   tune    on  strings  that  once 

were  new. 


POEM    READ   AT   THE   NEW    YORK   DINNER 


69 


Nor  let  the  rhymester  of  the  hour  deride 
The    straight  -  backed    measure    with    its 

stately  stride; 

It  gave  the  mighty  voice  of  Dryden  scope; 
It  sheathed   the  steel-bright  epigrams   of 

Pope ; 
In  Goldsmith's  verse  it  learned  a  sweeter 

strain; 
Byron   and    Campbell    wore    its    clanking 

chain; 

I  smile  to  listen  while  the  critic's  scorn 
Flouts  the  proud  purple  kings  have  nobly 

worn; 

Bid  each  new  rhymer  try  his  dainty  skill 
And  mould  his  frozen  phrases  as  he  will; 
We  thank  the  artist  for  his  neat  device; 
The  shape  is  pleasing',  though  the  stuff  is  j 

ice. 

Fashions  will  change  —  the  new  costume 
allures, 

Unfading  still  the  better  type  endures; 

While  the  slashed  doublet  of  the  cavalier 

Gave  the  old  knight  the  pomp  of  chanticleer, 

Our  last-hatched  dandy  with  his  glass  and 
stick 

Recalls  the  semblance  of  a  new-born 
chick  ; 

(To  match  the  model  he  is  aiming  at 

lie  ought  to  wear  an  eggshell  for  a 
hat;)- 

Which  of  these  objects  would  a  painter 
choose, 

And  whic-h  Velasquez  or  Van  Dyck  re 
fuse  ? 

When    your    kind    summons    reached    my 

calm  retreat. 
Who  are  the  friends,  I  questioned,  I  shall 

meet  ? 
Some    in    young  manhood,  shivering  with 

desire 
To    feel    the    genial    warmth   of    fortune's 

fire,  — 

Each  with  his  bellows  ready  in  his  hand 
To    puff    the    flame    just    waiting   to    be 

fanned; 

Some  heads  half-silvered,  some  with  snow- 
white  hair,  — 
A  crown  ungarnished  glistening  here  and 

there, 
The     mimic    moonlight    gleaming    on    the 

scalps 
As    evening's    empress   lights    the  shining 

Alps ; 


But   count   the    crowds   that   throng  your 

festal  scenes, 
How   few   that   knew   the    century  in   its 

teens  ! 

Save  for  the  lingering  handful  fate  be 
friends, 

Life's  busy  day  the  Sabbath  decade  ends; 

When  that  is  over,  how  with  what  remains 

Of  nature's  outfit,  muscle,  nerve,  and 
brains  ? 

Were  this  a  pulpit  I  should  doubtless 
preach, 

Were  this  a  platform  I  should  gravely 
teach, 

But  to  no  solemn  duties  I  pretend 

In  my  vocation  at  the  table's  end; 

So  as  my  answer  let  me  tell  instead 

What  Landlord  Porter  —  rest  his  soul  !  — 
once  said. 

A  feast  it  was  that  none  might  scorn  to 
share ; 

Cambridge  and  Concord's  demigods  were 
there,  — 

"And  who  were  they?"  You  know  as 
well  as  I 

The  stars  long  glittering  in  our  Eastern 
sky,  — 

The  names  that  blazon  our  provincial 
scroll 

Ring  round  the  world  with  Britain's  drum 
beat  roll  ! 

Good  was  the  dinner,  better  was  the  talk; 

Some  whispered,  devious  was  the  home 
ward  walk; 

The  story  came  from  some  reporting  spy,  — 

They  lie,  those  fellows,  —  oh,  how  they  do 
lie! 

Xot  ours  those  foot-tracks  in  the  new-fallen 


Poets  and  sages  never  zigzagged  so  ! 

Xow  Landlord  Porter,  grave,  concise,  se 
vere, 

Master,  nay,  monarch  in  his  proper  sphere, 
Though  to  belles-lettres  he  pretended  not, 
Lived  close  to  Harvard,  so  knew  what  was 

what; 

And  having  bards,  philosophers,  and  such, 
To  eat  his  dinner,  put  the  finest  touch 
His  art  could  teach,  those  learned  mouths 

to  fill 
With  the  best  proofs  of  gustatory  skill; 


MEDICAL   POEMS 


And  finding  wisdom  plenty  at  his  board, 
Wit,  science,  learning,  all  his  guests  had 

stored, 

By  way  of  contrast,  ventured  to  produce, 
To  please  their  palates,  an  inviting  goose. 
Better  it  were  the  company  should  starve 
Than  hands  unskilled  that  goose  attempt  to 

carve ; 

None  but  the  master-artist  shall  assail 
The  bird  that  turns  the  mightiest  surgeon 

pale. 

One  voice  arises  from  the  banquet-hall. 
The  landlord  answers  to  the  pleading  call; 
Of  stature  tall,  sublime  of  port  he  stands, 
His  blade  and  bident  gleaming  in  his  hands ; 
Beneath  his  glance  the  strong-knit  joints 

relax 
As  the  weak  knees  before  the  headsman's 

axe. 

And   Landlord   Porter   lifts  his  glittering 

knife 
As  some  stout  warrior  armed  for  bloody 

strife ; 

All  eyes  are  on  him;  some  in  whispers  ask, 
What  man  is  he  who  dares  this  dangerous 

task  ? 

When  lo  !  the  triumph  of  consummate  art, 
With  scarce  a  touch   the   creature   drops 

apart ! 

As  when  the  baby  in  his  nurse's  lap 
Spills  on  the  carpet  a  dissected  map. 

Then  the  calm  sage,  the  monarch  of  the 

lyre, 

Critics  and  men  of  science  all  admire, 
And  one  whose  wisdom  I  will  not  impeach, 
Lively,   not    churlish,   somewhat    free    of 

speech, 
Speaks  thus:    "  Say,  master,  what  of  worth 

is  left 

In  birds  like  this,  of  breast  and  legs  be 
reft  ?  " 

And  Landlord  Porter,  with  uplifted  eyes, 
Smiles  on  the  simple  querist,  and  replies: 
"  When  from  a  goose  you  've  taken  legs 

and  breast, 

Wipe  lips,  thank  God,  and  leave  the  poor 
the  rest !  " 

Kind  friends,  sweet  friends,  I  hold  it  hardly 
fair 

With  that  same  bird  your  minstrel  to  com 
pare, 


Yet  in  a  certain  likeness  we  agree, 
No  wrong  to  him  and  no  offence  to  me; 
I  take  him  for  the  moral  he  has  lent, 
My  partner,  —  to  a  limited  extent. 

When   the  stern   Landlord   whom  we   all 

obey 
Has  carved   from   life   its   seventh    great 

slice  away, 

Is  the  poor  fragment  left  in  blank  collapse 
A  pauper  remnant  of  unvalued  scraps  ? 

I  care  not  much  what  Solomon  has  said, 
Before  his  time  to  nobler  pleasures  dead; 
Poor  man  !  he  needed  half  a  hundred  lives 
With  such  a  babbling  wilderness  of  wives  ! 
But  is  there  nothing  that  may  well  employ 
Life's  winter  months,  —  no   sunny  hour  of 

joy? 

While  o'er  the  fields  the  howling  tempests 

rage, 

The  prisoned  linnet  warbles  in  its  cage ; 
When  chill  November  through  the  forest 

blows, 
The   greenhouse    shelters  the    untroubled 

rose; 
Round   the   high  trellis   creeping  tendrils 

twine, 
And  the  ripe  clusters  fill   with  blameless 

wine ; 

We  make  the  vine  forget  the  winter's  cold, 
But  how  shall  age  forget  its  growing  old  ? 

Though  doing  right  is  better  than  deceit, 
Time  is  a  trickster  it  is  fair  to  cheat; 
The  honest  watches  ticking  in  your  fobs 
Tell  every  minute  how  the  rascal  robs. 
To  clip  his  forelock  and  his  scythe  to  hide, 
To  lay  his  hour-glass  gently  on  its  side, 
To   slip   the    cards    he  marked   upon   the 

shelf 
And   deal   him    others  you    have    marked 

yourself, 

If  not  a  virtue  cannot  be  a  sin, 
For  the  old  rogue  is  sure  at  last  to  win. 
What  does  he  leave  when  life  is  well-nigh 

spent 

To  lap  its  evening  in  a  calm  content  ? 
Art,  letters,  science,  these  at  least  befriend 
Our  day's   brief  remnant    to    its  peaceful 

end,  — 
Peaceful   for  him  who  shows   the   setting 

sun 
A  record  worthy  of  his  Lord's  Well  done! 


POEM  READ  AT  THE  NEW  YORK  DINNER 


When   he,  the   master    whom    I   will   not 

name, 
Known   to    our   calling,    not   unknown   to 

fame, 
At   life's  extremest   verge,  half   conscious 

lay, 

Helpless  and  sightless,  (lying  (lay  by  day, 
His  brain,  so  long  with  varied  wisdom 

fraught, 

Filled  with  the  broken  enginery  of  thought, 
A  Hitting  vision  often  would  illume 
His  darkened  world,  and  cheer  its  deepen 
ing  gloom,  — 

A    sunbeam   struggling   through    the    long- 
eclipse,  — 

And  smiles  of  pleasure  play  around  his  lips. 
He  loved  the  art  that  shapes  the  dome  and 

spire; 
The    Roman's   page,    the  ring  of    Byron's 

lyre, 

And  oft  when  fitful  memory  would  return 
To  find  some  fragment  in  her  broken  urn, 
Would  wake  to  life  some  long-forgotten 

hour, 
And  lead   his  thought   to    Pisa's  terraced 

tower, 

Or  trace  in  light  before  his  raylcss  eye 
The    dome-crowned    Pantheon    printed   on 

the  sky; 

Then  while  the  view  his  ravished  soul  ab 
sorbs 

And  lends  a  glitter  to  the  sightless  orbs, 
The    patient    watcher    feels    the    stillness 

stirred 

By  the  faint  murmur  of  some  classic  word, 
Or  the  long  roll  of  Harold's  lofty  rhyme, 
"  Simple,     erect,     severe,      austere,      sub 
lime,"  - 
Such    were   the    dreams    that    soothed  his 

couch  of  pain, 
The  sweet  nepenthe  of  the  worn-out  brain. 


Brothers  in  art,  who  live  for  others'  needs 
In  duty's  bondage,  mercy's  gracious  deeds, 
Of  all  who  toil  beneath  the  circling  sun 
Whose  evening  rest  than  yours  more  fairly 

won  ? 
Though     many    a    cloud    your    struggling 

morn  obscures, 
AVhat  sunset  brings   a   brighter  sky  than 

yours  ? 

I,  who  your  labors  for  a  while  have  shared, 
Xew  tasks  have    sought,    with  new   com 
panions  fared, 

For  nature's  servant  far  too  often  seen 
A  loiterer  by  the  waves  of  Hippocrene; 
Yet  round  the  earlier  friendship  twines  the 

new, 
My    footsteps    wander,    but   my   heart    is 

true, 

Xor  e'er  forgets  the  living  or  the  dead 
Who  trod  with  me  the  paths  where  science 
led. 

How  can  I  tell  you,  O  my  loving  friends  ! 
What    light,    what    warmth,    your    joyous 

welcome  lends 
To   life's  late    hour  ?     Alas  !  my  song   is 

sung, 

Its  fading  accents  falter  on  my  tongue. 
Sweet  friends,  if,  shrinking  in  the  banquet's 

blaze, 
Your  blushing  guest  must   face  the  breath 

of  praise, 
Speak  not  too  well  of  one   who  scarce  will 

know 

Himself  transfigured  in  its  roseate  glow; 
Say  kindly  of  him  what  is,  chiefly,  true, 
Remembering  always  he  belongs  to  you; 
Deal  with  him  as  a  truant,  if  you  will, 
But  claim  him,  keep  him,  call   him  brother 

still  ! 


SONGS    IN   MANY   KEYS 


1849-1861 


PROLOGUE 


THE  piping  of  our  slender,  peaceful  reeds 
Whispers  uncared  for  while  the  trumpets 

bray; 

Song  is  thin  air;  our  hearts'  exulting  play 
Beats  time  but  to  the  tread  of  marching 

deeds, 
Following  the    mighty  van  that  Freedom 

leads, 

Her  glorious  standard  flaming  to  the  day  ! 
The  crimsoned   pavement   where    a    hero 

bleeds 

Breathes  nobler  lessons  than  the  poet's  lay. 
Strong  arms,  broad  breasts,  brave  hearts, 

are  better  worth 
Than  strains  that  sing  the  ravished  echoes 

dumb. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  loud  reverberating  drum 
Rolls  o'er    the  prairied   West,   the   rock- 
bound  North: 

The  myriad-handed  Future  stretches  forth 
Its  shadowy  palms.     Behold,  we  come,  — 

we  come  ! 

Turn  o'er  these  idle  leaves.     Such  toys  as 

these 
Were    not   unsought    for,   as,  in    languid 

dreams, 

We  lay  beside  our  lotus-feeding  streams, 
And  nursed  our  fancies  in  forgetful  ease. 
It  matters  little  if  they  pall  or  please, 
Dropping     untimely,     while     the    sudden 

gleams 
Glare   from   the   mustering   clouds  whose 

blackness  seems 
Too  swollen  to  hold  its  lightning  from  the 

trees. 

Yet,  in  some  lull  of  passion,  when  at  last 
These  calm  revolving  moons  that  come  and 

go  — 
Turning  our  months  to  years,  they  creep  so 

slow  — 


Have  brought  us  rest,  the  not  unwelcome 

past 
May  flutter  to  thee  through  these  leaflets, 

cast 

On  the  wild  winds  that  all  around  us  blow. 
May  1,  1861. 

AGNES 

The  story  of  Sir  Harry  Frankland  and  Agnes 
Surriage  is  told  in  the  ballad  with  a  very  strict 
adhesion  to  the  facts.  These  were  obtained 
from  information  afforded  me  by  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Webster,  of  Hopkinton,  in  company  with  whom 
I  visited  the  Frankland  Mansion  in  that  town, 
then  standing ;  from  a  very  interesting-  Me 
moir,  by  the  Rev.  Elias  Nason,  of  Medford  ; 
and  from  the  manuscript  diary  of  Sir  Harry,  or 
more  properly  Sir  Charles  Henry  Frankland, 
now  iu  the  library  of  the  Massachusetts  His 
torical  Society. 

At  the  time  of  the  visit  referred  to,  old 
Julia  was  living-,  and  on  our  return  we  called 
at  the  house  where  she  resided.1  Her  account 
is  little  more  than  paraphrased  in  the  poem. 
If  the  incidents  are  treated  with  a  certain  lib 
erality  at  the  close  of  the  fifth  part,  the  essen 
tial  fact  that  Agnes  rescued  Sir  Harry  from  the 
ruins  after  the  earthquake,  and  their  subse 
quent  marriage  as  related,  may  be  accepted  as 
literal  truth.  So  with  regard  to  most  of  the 
trifling  details  which  are  given ;  they  are  taken 
from  the  record. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  the  Frank- 
land  Mansion  no  longer  exists.  It  was  acci 
dentally  burned  on  the  23d  of  January,  1858,  a 
year  or  two  after  the  first  sketch  of  this  ballad 
was  written.  A  visit  to  it  was  like  stepping 
out  of  the  century  into  the  years  before  the 
Revolution.  A  new  house,  similar  in  plan  and 
arrangements  to  the  old  one,  has  been  built 
upon  its  site,  and  the  terraces,  the  clump  of 
box,  and  the  lilacs  doubtless  remain  to  bear 
witness  to  the  truth  of  this  story. 

1  She  was  living  June  10,  1SG1,  when  this  ballad  was 
published. 


AGNES 


73 


The  story,  which  I  have  told  literally  in 
rhyme,  has  been  made  the  subject  of  a  care 
fully  studied  and  interesting1  romance  by  Mr. 
E.  L.  Bynner. 

PART    I.     THE   KNIGHT 

THE  tale  I  tell  is  gospel  true, 

As  all  the  bookmen  know, 
And  pilgrims  who  have  strayed  to  view 

The  wrecks  still  left  to  show. 

The  old,  old  story,  —  fair,  and  young, 
And  fond,  —  and  not  too  wise,  — 

That  matrons  tell,  with  sharpened  tongue, 
To  maids  with  downcast  eyes. 

Ah  !  maidens  err  and  matrons  warn 

Beneath  the  coldest  sky; 
Love  lurks  amid  the  tasselled  corn 

As  in  the  bearded  rye  ! 

But  who  would  dream  our  sober  sires 
Had  learned  the  old  world's  ways, 

And  warmed  their  hearths  with  lawless  fires 
In  Shirley's  homespun  days  ? 

'T  is  like  some  poet's  pictured  trance 

His  idle  rh vines  recite,  — 
This  old  Xew  England-born  romance 

Of  Agnes  and  the  Knight; 

Yet,  known  to  all  the  country  round, 

Their  home  is  standing  still, 
Between  Wachusett's  lonely  mound 

And  Shawmut's  threefold  hill. 

One  hour  we  rumble  on  the  rail, 

One  half-hour  guide  the  rein, 
We  reach  at  last,  o'er  hill  and  dale, 

The  village  on  the  plain. 

With  blackening  wall  and  mossy  roof, 
AVitli  stained  and  warping  Moor, 

A  stately  mansion  stands  aloof 
And  bars  its  haughty  door. 

This  lowlier  portal  may  be  tried, 

That  breaks  the  gable  wall; 
And  lo  !  with  arches  opening  wide, 

Sir  Harry  Frankland  s  hall  ! 

'T  was  in  the  second  George's  day 
They  sought  the  forest  shade, 


The  knotted  trunks  they  cleared  away, 
The  massive  beams  they  laid, 

They  piled  the  rock-hewn  chimney  tall, 
They  smoothed  the  terraced  ground, 

They  reared  the  marble-pillared  wall 
That  fenced  the  mansion  round. 

Far  stretched  beyond  the  village  bound 

The  Master's  broad  domain; 
With  page  and  valet,  horse  and  hound, 

He  kept  a  goodly  train. 

And,  all  the  midland  comity  through, 
The  ploughman  stopped  to  gaze 

Whene'er  his  chariot  swept  in  view 
Behind  the  shining  bays, 

With  mute  obeisance,  grave  and  slow, 

Repaid  by  nod  polite,  — 
For  such  the  way  with  high  and  low 

Till  after  Concord  light. 

Xor  less  to  courtly  circles  know 
That  graced  the  three-hilled  town 

With  far-off  splendors  of  the  Throne, 
And  glimmerings  from  the  Crown; 

Wise  Phipps,  who  held  the  seals  of  state 

For  Shirley  over  sea; 

Brave   Knowles,  whose   press-gang   moved 
of  late 

The  King  Street  mob's  decree; 

And  judges  grave,  and  colonels  grand, 

Fair  dames  and  stately  men, 
The  mighty  people  of  the  land, 

The  u  World  "  of  there  and  then. 

'T    was    strange    no    Chloe's    "  beauteous 
Form," 

And  "  Eyes'  crclestial  Blew," 
This  Strephon  of  the  West  could  warm, 

Xo  Xymph  his  Heart  subdue  ! 

Perchance  he  wooed  as  gallants  use, 

Whom  fleeting  loves  enchain, 
But  still  unfettered,  free  to  choose, 

Would  brook  no  bridle-rein. 

He  saw  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 

But  smiled  alike  on  all ; 
Xo  band  his  roving  foot  might  snare, 

Xo  rinjr  his  hand  enthrall. 


74 


SONGS    IN   MANY   KEYS 


PART  II.    THE   MAIDEN 

Why  seeks  the  knight  that  rocky  cape 

Beyond  the  Bay  of  Lynn  ? 
What  chance  his  wayward  course  may  shape 

To  reach  its  village  inn  ? 

No  story  tells  ;  whate'er  we  guess, 

The  past  lies  deaf  and  still, 
But  Fate,  who  rules  to  blight  or  bless, 

Can  lead  us  where  she  will. 

Make  way  !  Sir  Harry's  coach  and  four, 
And  liveried  grooms  that  ride  ! 

They  cross  the  ferry,  touch  the  shore 
On  Winnisimmet's  side. 

They  hear  the  wash  on  Chelsea  Beach,  — 

The  level  marsh  they  pass, 
Where  miles  on  miles  the  desert  reach 

Is  rough  with  bitter  grass. 

The  shining  horses  foam  and  pant, 

And  now  the  smells  begin 
Of  fishy  Swampscott,  salt  Nahant, 

And  leather-scented  Lynn. 

Next,  on  their  left,  the  slender  spires 
And  glittering  vanes  that  crown 

The  home  of  Salem's  frugal  sires, 
The  old,  witch-haunted  town. 

So  onward,  o'er  the  rugged  way 
That  runs  through  rocks  and  sand, 

Showered  by  the  tempest-driven  spray, 
From  bays  on  either  hand, 

That  shut  between  their  outstretched  arms 

The  crews  of  Marblehead, 
The  lords  of  ocean's  watery  farms, 

Who  plough  the  waves  for  bread. 

At  last  the  ancient  inn  appears, 

The  spreading  elm  below, 
Whose  flapping  sign  these  fifty  years 

Has  seesawed  to  and  fro. 

How  fair  the  azure  fields  in  sight 

Before  the  low-browed  inn  ! 
The  tumbling  billows  fringe  with  light 

The  crescent  shore  of  Lynn ; 

Nahant  thrusts  outward  through  the  waves 
Her  arm  of  yellow  sand, 


And  breaks  the  roaring  surge  that  braves 
The  gauntlet  on  her  hand  ; 

With  eddying  whirl  the  waters  lock 

Yon  treeless  mound  forlorn, 
The  sharp-winged  sea-fowl's  breeding-rock, 

That  fronts  the  Spouting  Horn; 

Then  free  the  white-sailed  shallops  glide, 

And  wide  the  ocean  smiles, 
Till,  shoreward  bent,  his  streams  divide 

The  two  bare  Misery  Isles. 

The  master's  silent  signal  stays 

The  wearied  cavalcade; 
The  coachman  reins  his  smoking  bays 

Beneath  the  elm-tree's  shade. 

A  gathering  on  the  village  green  ! 

The  cocked-hats  crowd  to  see, 
On  legs  in  ancient  velveteen, 

With  buckles  at  the  knee. 

A  clustering  round  the  tavern-door 

Of  square-toed  village  boys, 
Still  wearing,  as  their  grandsires  wore, 

The  old-world  corduroys  ! 

A  scampering  at  the  "  Fountain  "  inn,  — 

A  rush  of  great  and  small,  — 
With  hurrying  servants'  mingled  din 

And  screaming  matron's  call ! 

Poor  Agnes  !  with  her  work  half  done 

They  caught  her  unaware; 
As,  humbly,  like  a  praying  nun, 

She  knelt  upon  the  stair; 

Bent  o'er  the  steps,  with  lowliest  mien 

She  knelt,  but  not  to  pray,  — 
Her  little  hands  must  keep  them  clean, 

And  wash  their  stains  away. 

A  foot,  an  ankle,  bare  and  white, 
Her  girlish  shapes  betrayed,  — 

"  Ha  !  Nymphs   and   Graces  ! "   spoke  the 

Knight; 
"  Look  up,  my  beauteous  Maid  !  " 

She  turned,  —  a  reddening  rose  in  bud, 

Its  calyx  half  withdrawn,  — 
Her  cheek  on  fire  with  damasked  blood 

Of  girlhood's  glowing  dawn  ! 


AGNES 


75 


He    searched    her  features    through    ami 
through, 

As  royal  lovers  look 
On  lowly  maidens,  when  they  woo 

Without  the  ring  and  book. 

"  Come  hither,  Fair  one  !  Here,  my  Sweet  ! 

Xay,  prithee,  look  not  down  ! 
Take  this  to  shoe  those  little  feet,"  — 

He  tossed  a  silver  crown. 

A  sudden  paleness  struck  her  brow,  — 

A  swifter  blush  succeeds  ; 
It  burns  her  cheek;  it  kindles  now 

Beneath  her  golden  beads. 

She  flitted,  but  the  glittering  eye 

Still  sought  the  lovely  face. 
Who  was  she  ?     What,  and  whence  ?  and 
why 

Doomed  to  such  menial  place  ? 

A  skipper's  daughter,  —  so  they  said,  — 

Left  orphan  by  the  gale 
That  cost  the  fleet  of  Marblchead 

And  Gloucester  thirty  sail. 

Ah  !  many  a  lonely  home  is  found 

Along  the  Essex  shore, 
That  cheered  its  goodman  outward  bound, 

And  sees  his  face  no  more  ! 

"  Xot  so,"  the  matron  whispered,  —  "  sure 

Xo  orphan  girl  is  she,  — 
The  Surriage  folk  are  deadly  poor 

Since  Edward  left  the  sea, 

"  And  Mary,  with  her  growing  brood. 

Has  work  enough  to  do 
To  find  the  children  clothes  and  food 

With  Thomas,  John,  and  Hugh. 

"  This  girl  of  Mary's, growing  tall,  — 
(Just  turned  her  sixteenth  year,)  — 

To  earn  her  bread  and  help  them  all, 
Would  work  as  housemaid  here." 

So  Agnes,  with  her  golden  beads, 

And  naught  beside  as  dower, 
Grew  at  the  wayside  with  the  weeds, 

Herself  a  garden-flower. 

'T  was  strange,  't  was  sad,  —  so  fresh,  so 

fair  ! 
Thus  Pitv's  voice  be^an. 


Such  grace  !  an  angel's  shape  and  air  ! 
The  half-heard  whisper  ran. 


For  eyes  could  see  in  George's  time, 

As  now  in  later  days, 
And  lips  could  shape,  in  prose  and  rhyme, 

The  honeyed  breath  of  praise. 

Xo  time  to  woo  !     The  train  must  go 

Long  ere  the  sun  is  down, 
To  reach,  before  the  night-winds  blow, 

The  many-steepled  town. 

'T  is   midnight,  —  street    and    square    are 
still; 

Dark  roll  the  whispering  waves 
That  lap  the  piers  beneath  the  hill 

Ridged  thick  with  ancient  graves. 

Ah,  gentle  sleep  !  thy  hand  will  smooth 

The  weary  couch  of  pain, 
When  all  thy  poppies  fail  to  soothe 

The  lover's  throbbing  brain  ! 

'Tis  morn, — the  orange-mantled  sun 
Breaks  through  the  fading  gray, 

And  long  and  loud  the  Castle  gun 
Peals  o'er  the  glistening  bay. 

'•  Thank  God  't  is  day  !  "     With  eager  eye 
He  hails  the  morning  shine:  — 

"  If  art  can  win,  or  gold  can  buy, 
The  maiden  shall  be  mine  !  " 


PART    III.     THE   CONQUEST 

"  Who  saw  this  hussy  when  she  came  ? 

What  is  the  wench,  and  who  ?  " 
They  whisper.     A ync.fi  —  is  her  name  ? 

Pray  what  has  she  to  do  ? 

The  housemaids  parley  at  the  gate, 

The  scullions  on  the  stair, 
And  in  the  footmen's  grave  debate 

The  butler  deigns  to  share. 

Black  Dinah,  stolen  when  a  child, 

And  sold  on  Boston  pier, 
Grown  up  in  service,  petted,  spoiled, 

Speaks  in  the  coachman's  ear: 

"  What,  all  this  household  at  his  will  ? 

And  all  are  yet  too  few  ? 
More  servants,  and  more  servants  still, 

This  pert  young  madam  too  !  " 


76 


SONGS   IN   MANY   KEYS 


"  Servant  I  fine  servant  !  "  laughed  aloud 
The  man  of  coach  and  steeds; 

"  She  looks  too  fair,  she  steps  too  proud, 
This  girl  with  golden  beads  ! 

"  I  tell  you,  you  may  fret  and  frown, 
And  call  her  what  you  choose, 

You  '11  find  my  Lady  in  her  gown, 
Your  Mistress  in  her  shoes  !  " 

Ah,  gentle  maidens,  free  from  blame, 

God  grant  you  never  know 
The  little  whisper,  loud  with  shame, 

That  makes  the  world  your  foe  ! 

Why  tell  the  lordly  flatterer's  art, 
That  won  the  maiden's  ear,  — 

The  fluttering  of  the  frightened  heart, 
The  blush,  the  smile,  the  tear  ? 

Alas  !  it  were  the  saddening  tale 
That  every  language  knows,  — 

The  wooing  wind,  the  yielding  sail, 
The  sunbeam  and  the  rose. 

And  now  the  gown  of  sober  stuff 
Has  changed  to  fair  brocade, 

With  broidered  hem,  and  hanging  cuff, 
And  flower  of  silken  braid  ; 

And  clasped  around  her  blanching  wrist 

A  jewelled  bracelet  shines, 
Her  flowing  tresses'  massive  twist 

A  glittering  net  confines  ; 

And  mingling  with  their  truant  wave 

A  fretted  chain  is  hung; 
But  ah  !  the  gift  her  mother  gave,  — 

Its  beads  are  all  unstrung  ! 

Her  place  is  at  the  master's  board, 
Where  none  disputes  her  claim; 

She  walks  beside  the  mansion's  lord, 
His  bride  in  all  but  name. 

The  busy  tongues  have  ceased  to  talk, 

Or  speak  in  softened  tone, 
So  gracious  in  her  daily  walk 

The  angel  light  has  shown. 

No  want  that  kindness  may  relieve 

Assails  her  heart  in  vain, 
The  lifting  of  a  ragged  sleeve 

Will  check  her  palfrey's  rein. 


A  thoughtful  calm,  a  quiet  grace 
In  every  movement  shown, 

Reveal  her  moulded  for  the  place 
She  may  not  call  her  own. 

And,  save  that  on  her  youthful  brow 
There  broods  a  shadowy  care, 

No  matron  sealed  with  holy  vow 
In  all  the  land  so  fair  ! 


PART   IV.    THE   RESCUE 

A  ship  comes  foaming  up  the  bay, 

Along  the  pier  she  glides; 
Before  her  furrow  melts  away, 

A  courier  mounts  and  rides. 

"  Haste,  Haste,  post  Haste  !  "  the  letters 
bear  ; 

"  Sir  Harry  Frankland,  These." 
Sad  news  to  tell  the  loving  pair  ! 

The  knight  must  cross  the  seas. 

"  Alas  !  we  part !  "  — the  lips  that  spoke 

Lost  all  their  rosy  red, 
As  when  a  crystal  cup  is  broke, 

And  all  its  wine  is  shed. 

"  Nay,   droop    not    thus,  —  where'er,"   he 
cried, 

"  I  go  by  land  or  sea, 
My  love,  my  life,  my  joy,  my  pride, 

Thy  place  is  still  by  me  !  " 

Through  town  and  city,  far  and  wide, 
Their  wandering  feet  have  strayed, 

From  Alpine  lake  to  ocean  tide, 
And  cold  Sierra's  shade. 

At  length  they  see  the  waters  gleam 

Amid  the  fragrant  bowers 
Where  Lisbon  mirrors  in  the  stream 

Her  belt  of  ancient  towers. 

Red  is  the  orange  on  its  bough, 

To-morrow's  sun  shall  fling 
O'er  Cintra's  hazel-shaded  brow 

The  flush  of  April's  wing. 

The  streets  are  loud  with  noisy  mirth, 

They  dance  on  every  green; 
The  morning's  dial  marks  the  birth 

Of  proud  Braganza's  queen. 


AGNES 


77 


At  eve  beneath  their  pictured  dome 

The  gilded  courtiers  throiig; 
The  broad  moidores  have  cheated  Rome 

Of  all  her  lords  of  song. 

Ah  !  Lisbon  dreams  not  of  the  day  — 
Pleased  with  her  painted  scenes  — 

When  all  her  towers  shall  slide  away 
As  now  these  canvas  screens  ! 

The  spring  has  passed,  the  summer  tied, 

And  yet  they  linger  still, 
Though    autumn's    rustling    leaves    have 
spread 

The  Hank  of  Cintra's  hill. 

The  town  has  learned  their  Saxon  name, 
And  touched  their  English  gold, 

Nor  tale  of  doubt  nor  hint  of  blame 
From  over  sea  is  told. 

Three  hours  the  first  November  dawn 

lias  climbed  with  feeble  ray 
Through  mists  like  heavy  curtains  drawn 

Before  the  darkened  day. 

How  still  the  muffled  echoes  sleep  ! 

Hark  !  hark  !  a  hollow  sound,  — 
A  noise  like  chariots  rumbling  deep 

Beneath  the  solid  ground. 

The  channel  lifts,  the  water  slides 

And  bares  its  bar  of  sand, 
Anon  a  mountain  billow  strides 

And  crashes  o'er  the  land. 

The  turrets  lean,  the  steeples  reel 

Like  masts  on  ocean's  swell, 
And  clash  a  long  discordant  peal, 

The  death-doomed  city's  knell. 

The  pavement  bursts,  the  earth  upheaves 

Beneath  the  staggering  town  ! 
The  turrets  crack  —  the  castle  cleaves  — 

The  spires*  come  rushing  down. 

Around,  the  lurid  mountains  glow 
With  strange  unearthly  gleams; 

While  black  abysses  gape  below, 
Then  close  in  jagged  seams. 

The  earth  has  folded  like  a  wave, 

And  thrice  a  thousand  score, 
Clasped,  shroudless,  in  their  closing  grave, 

The  sun  shall  see  no  more  ! 


|   And  all  is  over.     Street  and  square 

In  ruined  heaps  are  piled; 
Ah  !  where  is  she,  so  frail,  so  fair, 
Amid  the  tumult  wild  ? 

Unscathed,    she    treads    the    wreck -piled 

street, 
Whose  narrow  gaps  afford 


V 


for  her  bleeding  feet, 
o  seek  her  absent  lord. 


A  temple's  broken  walls  arrest 
Her  wild  and  wandering  eyes; 

Beneath  its  shattered  portal  pressed, 
Her  lord  unconscious  lies. 

The  power  that  living  hearts  obey 
Shall  lifeless  blocks  withstand  ? 

Love  led  her  footsteps  where  he  lay,  — 
Love  nerves  her  woman's  hand: 

One  cry,  —  the  marble  shaft  she  grasps,  — 
Up  heaves  the  ponderous  stone  :  — 

He    breathes,  —  her    fainting    form     he 

clasps,  — 
Her  life  has  boudit  his  own  ! 


PART    V.     THE    REWARD 

How  like  the  starless  night  of  death 

Our  being's  brief  eclipse, 
When  faltering  heart  and  failing  breath 

Have  bleached  the  fading  lips  ! 

She  lives  !     What  guerdon  shall  repay 

His  debt  of  ransomed  life  ? 
One  word  can  charm  all  wrongs  away,  — 

The  sacred  name  of  WIFE  ! 

The  love  that  won  her  girlish  charms 
Must  shield  her  matron  fame, 

And  write  beneath  the  Frankland  arms 
The  village  beauty's  name. 


Go,  call  the  priest  !  no  vain  delay 
Shall  dim  the  sacred  ring  ! 

Who    knows    what    change    the 

day, 
The  fleeting  hour,  may  bring  ? 

Before  the  holy  altar  bent, 
There  kneels  a  goodly  pair; 

A  stately  man,  of  high  descent, 
A  woman,  passing  fair. 


SONGS    IN   MANY   KEYS 


No  jewels  lend  the  blinding-  sheen 

That  meaner  beauty  needs, 
But  on  her  bosom  heaves  unseen 

A  string  of  golden  beads. 

The  vow  is  spoke,  — the  prayer  is  said, — 

And  with  a  gentle  pride 
The  Lady  Agnes  lifts  her  head, 

Sir  Harry  Fraukland's  bride. 

No  more  her  faithful  heart  shall  bear 
Those  griefs  so  meekly  borne,  — 

The  passing  sneer,  the  freezing  stare, 
The  icy  look  of  scorn ; 

No  more  the  blue-eyed  English  dames 

Their  haughty  lips  shall  curl, 
Whene'er  a  hissing  whisper  names 

The  poor  New  England  girl. 

But  stay  !  —  his  mother's  haughty  brow,  — 

The  pride  of  ancient  race,  — 
Will  plighted  faith,  and  holy  vow, 

Win  back  her  fond  embrace  ? 

Too  well  she  knew  the  saddening  tale 

Of  love  no  vow  had  blest, 
That  turned  his  blushing  honors  pale 

And  stained  his  knightly  crest. 

They  seek  his  Northern  home,  —  alas  : 

He  goes  alone  before ;  — 
His  own  dear  Agnes  may  not  pass 

The  proud,  ancestral  door. 

He  stood  before  the  stately  dame; 

He  spoke;  she  calmly  heard, 
But  not  to  pity,  nor  to  blame; 

She  breathed  no  single  word. 

He  told  his  love,  —  her  faith  betrayed ; 

She  heard  with  tearless  eyes; 
Could  she  forgive  the  erring  maid  ? 

She  stared  in  cold  surprise. 

How    fond    her    heart,    he    told,  —  how 
true ; 

The  haughty  eyelids  fell;  — 
The  kindly  deeds  she  loved  to  do; 

She  murmured,  "  It  is  well." 

But  when  he  told  that  fearful  day, 

And  how  her  feet  were  led 
To  where  entombed  in  life  he  lay, 

The  breathing  with  the  dead, 


And  how  she  bruised  her  tender  breasts 

Against  the  crushing  stone, 
That  still  the  strong-armed  clown  protests 

No  man  can  lift  alone,  — 

Oh  !  then  the  frozen  spring  was  broke; 

By  turns  she  wept  and  smiled ;  — 
"  Sweet  Agnes  !  "  so  the  mother  spoke, 

"  God  bless  my  angel  child  ! 

"  She  saved  thee  from  the  jaws  of  death,  — 
'Tis  thine  to  right  her  wrongs; 

I  tell  thee,  —  I,  who  gave  thee  breath,  — 
To  her  thy  life  belongs  !  " 

Thus  Agnes  won  her  noble  name, 

Her  lawless  lover's  hand; 
The  lowly  maiden  so  became 

A  lady  in  the  land  ! 

PART  VI.     CONCLUSION 

The  tale  is  done  ;  it  little  needs 

To  track  their  after  ways, 
And  string  again  the  golden  beads 

Of  love's  uncounted  days. 

They  leave  the  fair  ancestral  isle 
For  bleak  New  England's  shore; 

How  gracious  is  the  courtly  smile 
Of  all  who  frowned  before  ! 

Again  through  Lisbon's  orange  bowers 

They  watch  the  river's  gleam, 
And  shudder  as  her  shadowy  towers 

Shake  in  the  trembling  stream. 

Fate  parts  at  length  the  fondest  pair; 

His  cheek,  alas  !  grows  pale; 
The   breast   that    trampling    death    could 
spare 

His  noiseless  shafts  assail. 

He  longs  to  change  the  heaven  of  blue 

For  England's  clouded  sky,  — 
To  breathe  the  air  his  boyhood  knew; 

He  seeks  them  but  to  die. 

Hard  by  the  terraced  hillside  town, 
Where  healing  streamlets  run, 

Still  sparkling  with  their  old  renown,  — 
The  "  Waters  of  the  Sun,"  — 

The  Lady  Agnes  raised  the  stone 
That  marks  his  honored  grave, 


THE    PLOUGHMAN 


79 


And  there  Sir  Harry  sleeps  alone 
By  Wiltshire  Avon's  wave. 

The  home  of  early  love  was  dear ; 

She  sought  its  peaceful  shade, 
And  kept  her  state  for  many  a  year, 

With  none  to  make  afraid. 

At  last  the  evil  days  were  come 
That  saw  the  red  cross  fall; 

She  hears  the  rebels'  rattling1  drum,  — 
Farewell  to  Frankland  Hall  ! 

I  tell  yon,  as  my  tale  began, 

The  hall  is  standing  still; 
And  you,  kind  listener,  maid  or  man, 

May  see  it  if  you  will. 

The  box  is  glistening  huge  and  green, 

Like  trees  the  lilacs  grow, 
Three  elms  high-arching  still  are  seen, 

And  one  lies  stretched  below. 


Where,  on  the  far  horizon's  line, 
He  cut  his  vista  through. 

If  further  story  you  shall  crave, 

Or  ask  for  living  proof, 
Go  see  old  Julia,  born  a  slave 

Beneath  Sir  Harry's  roof. 

She  told  me  half  that  I  have  told, 

And  she  remembers  well 
The  mansion  as  it  looked  of  old 

Before  its  glories  fell;  — 

The  box,  when  round  the  terraced  square 

Its  glossy  wall  was  drawn; 
The  climbing  vines,  the  snow-balls  fair, 

The  roses  on  the  lawn. 

And  Julia  says,  with  truthful  look 
Stamped  on  her  wrinkled  face, 

That  in  her  own  black  hands  she  took 
The  coat  with  silver  lace. 


The  hangings,  rough  with  velvet  flowers, 

Flap  on  the  latticed  wall; 
And  o'er  the  mossy  ridgepole  towers 

The  rock-hewn  chimney  tall. 

The  doors  on  mighty  hinges  clash 

With  massive  bolt  and  bar, 
The  heavy  English-moulded  sash 

Scarce  can  the  night-winds  jar. 

Behold  the  chosen  room  he  sought 

Alone,  to  fast  and  pray, 
Each  year,  as  chill  November  brought 

The  dismal  earthquake  day. 

There  hung  the  rapier  blade  he  wore, 

Bent  in  its  flattened  sheath; 
The  coat  the  shrieking  woman  tore 

Caught  in  her  clenching  teeth;  — 

The  coat  with  tarnished  silver  lace 

She  snapped  at  as  she  slid, 
And  down  upon  her  death-white  face 

Crashed  the  huge  coffin's  lid. 

A  graded  terrace  yet  remains; 

If  on  its  turf  you  stand 
And  look  along  the  wooded  plains 

That  stretch  on  either  hand, 

The  broken  forest  walls  define 
A  dim,  receding  view, 


And  you  may  hold  the  story  light, 

Or,  if  you  like,  believe; 
But  there  it  was,  the  woman's  bite,  — 

A  mouthful  from  the  sleeve. 

Now  go  your  ways;  —  I  need  not  tell 

The  moral  of  my  rhyme; 
But,  youths  and  maidens,  ponder  well 

This  tale  of  olden  time  ! 


THE    PLOUGHMAN 

ANNIVERSARY    OF  THE    BERKSHIRE  AGRI 
CULTURAL  SOCIETY,  OCTOBER  4,    1849 

[At  this  anniversary,  Dr.  Holmes  not  only 
read  the  following'  poem,  but  was  chairman  of 
the  committee  011  the  ploughing-  match,  and 
read  the  report  which  will  be  found  in  the  notes 
at  the  end  of  this  volume.] 

CLEAR  the  brown  path,  to  meet  his  coulter's 
gleam  ! 

Lo  !  on  he  comes,  behind  his  smoking 
team, 

With  toil's  bright  dew-drops  on  his  sun 
burnt  brow, 

The  lord  of  earth,  the  hero  of  the  plough  ! 

First    in   the    field    before    the    reddening 


Last  in  the  shadows  when  the  dav  is  done, 


8o 


SONGS   IN   MANY   KEYS 


Line  after  line,  along  the  bursting  sod, 

Marks  the  broad  acres  where  his  feet  have 
trod; 

Still,  where  he  treads,  the  stubborn  clods 
divide, 

The  smooth,  fresh  furrow  opens  deep  and 
wide ; 

Matted  and  dense  the  tangled  turf  up 
heaves, 

Mellow  and  dark  the  ridgy  cornfield 
cleaves ; 

Up  the  steep  hillside,  where  the  laboring 
train 

Slants  the  long  track  that  scores  the  level 
plain; 

Through  the  moist  valley,  clogged  with 
oozing  clay, 

The  patient  convoy  breaks  its  destined  way  ; 

At  every  turn  the  loosening  chains  resound, 

The  swinging  ploughshare  circles  glisten 
ing  round, 

Till  the  wide  field  one  billowy  waste  ap 
pears, 

And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting 
steers. 

These  are  the  hands  whose  sturdy  labor 
brings 

The  peasant's  food,  the  golden  pomp  of 
kings; 

This  is  the  page,  whose  letters  shall  be  seen 

Changed  by  the  sun  to  words  of  living 
green; 

This  is  the  scholar,  whose  immortal  pen 

Spells  the  first  lesson  hunger  taught  to 
men; 

These  are  the  lines  which  heaven-com 
manded  Toil 

Shows  on  his  deed,  —  the  charter  of  the 
soil! 

O     gracious     Mother,    whose     benignant 

breast 

Wakes  us  to  life,  and  lulls  us  all  to  rest, 
How  thy   sweet   features,   kind   to   every 

clime, 
Mock  with  their  smile  the  wrinkled  front 

of  time  ! 
We  stain  thy  flowers,  —  they  blossom  o'er 

the  dead; 

We  rend  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us  bread  ; 
O'er  the  red  field  that  trampling  strife  has 

torn, 
Waves  the  green  plumage  of  thy  tasselled 

corn ; 


Our  maddening  conflicts   scar  thy  fairest 

plain, 

Still  thy  soft  answer  is  the  growing  grain. 
Yet,    O    our     Mother,    while     uncounted 

charms 
Steal  round  our  hearts  in  thine  embracing 

arms, 

Let  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  decay, 
And  thy  fond  sweetness  waste  our  strength 

away. 

No  !  by  these  hills,  whose  banners  now  dis 
played 

In  blazing  cohorts  Autumn  has  arrayed; 

By  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splintery 
crests 

The  tossing  hemlocks  hold  the  eagles' 
nests ; 

By  these  fair  plains  the  mountain  circle 
screens, 

And  feeds  with  streamlets  from  its  dark 
ravines,  — 

True  to  their  home,  these  faithful  arms 
shall  toil 

To  crown  with  peace  their  own  untainted 
soil; 

And,  true  to  God,  to  freedom,  to  mankind, 

If  her  chained  bandogs  Faction  shall  un 
bind, 

These  stately  forms,  that  bending  even  now 

Bowed  their  strong  manhood  to  the  humble 
plough, 

Shall  rise  erect,  the  guardians  of  the  land, 

The  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right  hand, 

Till  o'er  their  hills  the  shouts  of  triumph  run, 

The  sword  has  rescued  what  the  plough 
share  won  ! 


SPRING 

WINTER  is  past  ;  the  heart  of  Nature 
warms 

Beneath  the  wrecks  of  unresisted  storms; 

Doubtful  at  first,  suspected  more  than  seen, 

The  southern  slopes  are  fringed  with  ten 
der  green; 

On  sheltered  banks,  beneath  the  dripping 
eaves, 

Spring's  earliest  nurslings  spread  their 
glowing  leaves, 

Bright  with  the  hues  from  wider  pictures 
won, 

White,  azure,  golden,  —  drift,  or  sky,  or 
sun,  — 


SPRING 


81 


The    snowdrop,    bearing    on    her    patient 

breast 
The    frozen    trophy    torn    from    Winter's 

crest; 

The  violet,  gazing  on  the  arch  of  blue 
Till  her  own  iris  wears  its  deepened  hue; 
The   spendthrift   crocus,  bursting  through 

the  mould 

Naked  and  shivering  with  his  cup  of  gold. 
Swelled  with  new  life,  the  darkening  elm 

on  high 
Prints  her  thick  buds  against  the  spotted 


On    all    her    boughs    the    stately    chestnut 

cleaves 
The  gummy  shroud  that  wraps  her  embryo 

leaves; 
The  house-llv,  stealing  from  his  narrow 


Drugged  with  the   opiate  that  November 

gave, 
Beats   with  faint  winir  against  the   sunny 


Or  crawls,  tenacious,  o'er  its  lucid  plain; 
From    shaded    chinks    of    lichen  -  crusted 


In    languid    curves,    the     gliding    serpent 

crawls ; 
The  bog's  green  harper,  thawing  from  his 


Twangs  a  hoarse  note  and  tries  a  shortened 

leap; 
On  floating  rails  that  face  the  softening 

noons 
The  still  shy  turtles  range  their  dark  pla- 


O'er  her  tall  blades  the  crested  fleur-de- 

lis, 
Like    blue-eyed    Pallas,  towers   erect    and 


With  yellower  flames  the  lengthened  sun 
shine  glows, 
And  love  lays  bare  the  passion-breathing 

rose ; 

Queen  of  the  lake,  along  its  reedy  verge 
The  rival  lily  hastens  to  emerge, 
Her    snowy    shoulders    glistening    as    she 

strips, 
Till  morn  is  sultan  of  her  parted  lips. 

Then  bursts  the  song  from  every  leafy 

glade, 

The  yielding  season's  bridal  serenade; 
Then  flash    the    wings    returning  Summer 

calls 
Through    the    deep    arches    of    her    forest 


The    bluebird,    breathing    from    his    azure 

plumes 
The  fragrance  borrowed  where  the  myrtle 


toons, 


The     thrush,     poor     wanderer,    dropping 

meekly  down, 

Clad  in  his  remnant  of  autumnal  brown; 
The  oriole,  drifting  like  a  flake  of  lire 
Kent  by  a  whirlwind  from  a  blazing  spire. 
The  robin,  jerking  his  spasmodic  throat, 
Repeats,  imperious,  his  staccato  note; 
The    crack-brained     bobolink    courts     his 

crazy  mate, 
Poised  on  a  bulrush  tipsy  with  his  weight; 


Or,    toiling    aimless    o'er    the     mellowing 

fields, 
Trail   through  the  grass    their    tessellated 

shields. 

At  last  young  April,  ever  frail  and  fair, 
Wooed  by  her   playmate  with  the  golden 


|    Nay,  in  his  cage  the  lone  canary  sings, 


Chased  to  the  margin  of  receding  floods 
O'er  the  soft  meadows  starred  with  open 
ing  buds, 

In  tears  and  blushes  sighs  herself  away, 
And  hides  her  cheek  beneath  the  flowers  of 


Then  the  proud  tulip  lights  her  beacon 

blaze, 
Her  clustering  curls  the  hyacinth  displays; 


Feels  the  soft  air,  and  spreads  his  idle  wings. 

Why  dream  I  here  within  these  caging 
walls, 

Deaf  to  her  voice,  while  blooming  Nature 
calls; 

Peering  and  gazing  with  insatiate  looks 

Through  blinding  lenses,  or  in  wearying 
books  ? 

Off,  gloomy  spectres  of  the  shrivelled  past  ! 

Fly  with  the  leaves  that  till  the  autumn 
blast  ! 

Ye  imps  of  Science,  whose  relentless  chains 

Lock  the  warm  tides  within  these  living- 
veins. 

Close  your  dim  cavern,  while  its  captive 
strays 

Dazzled  and  giddy  in  the  morning's  blaze  ! 


82 


SONGS    IN    MANY    KEYS 


THE    STUDY 

YET  in  the  darksome  crypt  I  left  so  late, 
Whose  only  altar  is  its  rusted  grate,  — 
Sepulchral,  ray  less,  joyless  as  it  seems, 
Shamed    by  the  glare  of  May's  refulgent 

beams,  — 
While    the    dim    seasons    dragged    their 

shrouded  train, 

Its  paler  splendors  were  not  quite  in  vain. 
From  these  dull  bars  the  cheerful  firelight's 

glow 
Streamed  through  the  casement   o'er  the 

spectral  snow; 
Here,   while   the   night- wind   wreaked  its 

frantic  will 

On  the  loose  ocean  and  the  rock-bound  hill, 
Kent  the  cracked  topsail  from   its  quiver 
ing  yard, 
And  rived  the  oak  a  thousand  storms  had 

scarred, 
Fenced  by  these  walls   the  peaceful  taper 

shone, 
Nor  felt  a  breath  to  slant  its  trembling 

coiie. 

Not  all  unblest  the  mild  interior  scene 
When  the  red  curtain  spread  its   falling 

screen; 
O'er  some  light  task  the  lonely  hours  were 

past, 

And  the  long  evening  only  flew  too  fast; 
Or  the  wide  chair  its  leathern  arms  would 

lend 

In  genial  welcome  to  some  easy  friend, 
Stretched  on  its  bosom  with  relaxing  nerves, 
Slow  moulding,  plastic,  to  its  hollow  curves; 
Perchance  indulging,  if  of  generous  creed, 
In  brave   Sir    Walter's    dream-compelling 

weed. 
Or,  happier  still,  the   evening  hour   would 

bring 

To  the  round  table  its  expected  ring, 
And  while  the  punch-bowl's  sounding  depths 

were  stirred, — 

Its  silver  cherubs  smiling  as  they  heard,  — 
Our  hearts  would  open,  as  at  evening's  hour 
The  close-sealed  primrose  frees  its  hidden 

flower. 

Such  the  warm  life  this  dim  retreat  has 

known, 

Not  quite  deserted  when  its  guests  were 
flown; 


Nay,  filled  with  friends,  an  unobtrusive  set, 
Guiltless  of  calls  and  cards  and  etiquette, 
Ready  to  answer,  never  known  to  ask, 
Claiming  no  service,  prompt  for  every  task. 

On  those  dark  shelves  no  housewife  hand 

profanes, 

O'er  his  mute  files  the  monarch  folio  reigns; 
A  mingled  race,  the  wreck  of  chance  and 

time, 
That  talk  all  tongues  and  breathe  of  every 

clime, 
Each  knows  his  place,  and  each  may  claim 

his  part 
In   some   quaint   corner   of    his    master's 

heart. 

This  old  Decretal,  won  from  Kloss's  hoards, 
Thick-leaved,  brass-cornered,  ribbed  with 

oaken  boards, 
Stands  the  gray  patriarch   of   the  graver 

rows, 
Its  fourth  ripe  century   narrowing   to   its 

close; 

Not  daily  conned,  but  glorious  still  to  view, 
With  glistening  letters  wrought  in  red  and 

blue. 

There  towers  Stagira's  all-embracing  sage, 
The  Aldine  anchor  on  his  opening  page ; 
There  sleep  the  births  of  Plato's  heavenly 

mind, 

In  yon  dark  tomb  by  jealous  clasps  con 
fined, 

"  Olim  e  libris  "  (dare  I  call  it  mine  ?) 
Of  Yale's  grave  Head  and  Killingworth's 

divine  ! 
In  those   square  sheets  the  songs  of  Maro 

fill 
The  silvery  types  of  smooth-leaved  Basker- 

ville; 

High  over  all,  in  close,  compact  array, 
Their  classic  wealth  the  Elzevirs  display. 
In  lower  regions  of  the  sacred  space 
Range  the  dense  volumes    of   a   humbler 

race ; 
There  grim  chirurgeons  all  their  mysteries 

teach, 

In  spectral  pictures,  or  in  crabbed  speech ; 
Harvey  and  Haller,  fresh  from  Nature's 

page, 

Shoulder  the  dreamers  of  an  earlier  age, 
Lully  and  Geber,  and  the  learned  crew 
That  loved  to  talk  of  all  they  could  not  do. 
Why  count  the  rest,  —  those  names  of  later 

days 
That  many  love,  and  all  agree  to  praise,  — 


NON-RESISTANCE 


83 


Or  point  the   titles,  where   a  glance    may 

read 

The  dangerous  lines  of  party  or  of  creed  ? 
Too  well,  perchance,  the  chosen  list  would 

show 
What  few  may  care  and  none  can  claim  to 

know. 

Each  has  his  features,  whose  exterior  seal 
A  brush  may  copy,  or  a  sunbeam  steal  ; 
Go  to  his  study,  — on  the  nearest  shelf 
Stands  the  mosaic  portrait  of  himself. 

What    though   for    months  the    tranquil 

dust  descends, 
Whitening:  the  heads  of  these  mine  ancient 


Sighing,  and  fearing  lest  he  sigh  in  vain, 
Hears  the  stern  accents,  as  they  come   and 

g°> 

Their  only  burden  one  despairing  No  ! 
Ocean's     rough     child,    whom     many    a 

shore  has  known 
Ere  homeward  breezes  swept   him  to  his 

own, 

Starts  at  the  echo  as  it  circles  round, 
A    thousand    memories   kindling   with   the 

sound ; 

The  early  favorite's  imforgotten  charms, 
Whose  blue  initials  stain  his  tawny  arms; 
His    first    farewell,    the     flapping     canvas 

spread, 

The  seaward  streamers  crackling  overhead, 
While  the  damp  offspring   of    the  modern       His    kind,    pale    mother,    not    ashamed    to 

press  weep 

Flaunts  on  my  table  with  its  pictured  dress;      Her    first-born's  bridal  with   the  haggard 
Not  less  I  love  each  dull  familiar  face,  deep, 

Nor  less  should  miss  it  from  the  appointed       While  the  brave  father  stood  with  tearless 

place; 
I  snatch  the    book,    along    whose    burning 

leaves 

His  scarlet  web  our  wild  romancer  weaves, 
Yet,  while   proud    Hester's    fiery    pangs    1 

share, 
Mv  old  MAGNALIA  must  be  standing  there.' 


THE    BELLS 

WHEN  o'er  the  street  the  morning  peal  i^ 
flunsf 


Smiling  and  choking  with  his  last  good-by. 

'T  is  but  a  wave,  whose  spreading  circle 

beats, 
With   the     same    impulse,    every  nerve    it 

meets, 
Yet  who  shall  count  the  varied  shapes  that 

ride 
On  the  round  surge  of  that  aerial  tide  ! 

O  child  of  earth  !    If  floating  sounds  like 
these 


From    yon    tall    belfry    with    the    brazen  |    Steal  from  thyself  their  power  to  wound  or 

tongue,  please, 

Its  wide  vibrations,  wafted  by  the  gale,  If  here  or  there  thy  changing  will  inclines, 

To  each  far  listener  tell  a  different  tale.  j   As  the  bright  zodiac  shifts  its  rolling  signs, 


The    sexton,    stooping  to   the  quivering 

floor 

Till  the  great  caldron  spills  its  brassy  roar, 
Whirls  the  hot  axle,  counting,  one  by  one, 
Each  dull  concussion,  till  his  task  is  done. 
Toil's  patient   daughter,   when   the   wel 
come  note 
Clangs    through    the     silence     from     the 

steeple's  throat, 
Streams,   a   white    unit,  to  the    checkered 

street, 
Demure,  but  guessing  whom  she  soon  shall 

meet; 

The  bell,  responsive  to  her  secret  flame, 
With  every  note  repeats  her  lover's  name. 
The    lover,    tenant    of    the    neighboring 
lane, 


Look  at  thy  heart,  and  when  its  depths  are 


Then  try  thy  brother's,  judging  by  thine  own, 
But    keep    thy    wisdom    to    the    narrower 

range, 
While  its   own  standards  are  the  sport   of 

change, 

Nor  count  us  rebels  when  we  disobey 
The  passing  breath  that  holds  thy  passion's 

swav. 


X  OX-RESISTANCE 

PERHAPS    too    far   in    these    considerate 

days 
I   Has  patience  carried   her  submissive  ways; 


SONGS    IN    MANY    KEYS 


Wisdom  has   taught   us   to   be   calm   and 

meek, 
To   take   one   blow,    and   turn     the    other 

cheek; 

It  is  not  written  what  a  man  shall  do 
If  the  rude  caitiff  smite  the  other  too  ! 

Land  of  our  fathers,  in  thine    hour  of 

need 
God   help   thee,    guarded   by   the   passive 

creed  ! 
As  the  lone   pilgrim  trusts  to  beads   and 

cowl, 
When  through  the  forest  rings  the  gray 

wolf's  howl; 
As    the   deep   galleon    trusts    her   gilded 

prow 
When  the  black  corsair  slants  athwart  her 

bow; 
As  the    poor  pheasant,  with  his  peaceful 

mien, 

Trusts  to  his  feathers,  shining  golden-green, 
When  the  dark  plumage  with  the  crimson 

beak 
Has  rustled  shadowy  from    its  splintered 

peak, — 
So     trust     thy    friends,    whose     babbling 

tongues  would  charm 
The  lifted  sabre  from  thy  foeman's  arm, 
Thy  torches  ready  for  the  answering  peal 
From  bellowing  fort  and  thunder-freighted 

keel! 


THE   MORAL  BULLY 

YON  whey-faced  brother,  who  delights  to 

wear 

A  weedy  flux  of  ill-conditioned  hair, 
Seems  of  the  sort  that  in  a  crowded  place 
One  elbows  freely  into  smallest  space; 
A  timid  creature,  lax  of  knee  and  hip, 
Whom   small    disturbance    whitens   round 

the  lip; 

One  of  those  harmless  spectacled  machines, 
The  Holy- Week  of  Protestants  convenes; 
Whom  school-boys  question  if  their  walk 

transcends 

The  last  advices  of  maternal  friends; 
Whom  John,  obedient  to  his  master's  sign, 
Conducts,  laborious,  up  to  ninety-nine, 
While    Peter,     glistening   with     luxurious 

scorn, 
Husks   his    white    ivories  like    an    ear   of 


Dark  in  the  brow  and  bilious  in  the  cheek, 
Whose  yellowish  linen  flowers  but  once  a 

week, 
Conspicuous,   annual,  in    their  threadbare 

suits, 
And  the  laced  high-lows  which  they  call 

their  boots, 
Well  mayst   thou   shun   that   dingy   front 

severe, 
But  him,  O   stranger,  him  thou  canst  not 

fear  ! 

Be  slow  to  judge,  and  slower  to  despise, 
Man  of  broad  shoulders  and  heroic  size  ! 
The  tiger,  writhing  from  the  boa's  rings, 
Drops   at   the   fountain   where   the   cobra 

stings. 
In   that   lean  phantom,    whose     extended 

glove 

Points  to  the  text  of  universal  love, 
Behold   the   master    that    can   tame   thee 

down 

To  crouch,  the  vassal  of  his  Sunday  frown ; 
His  velvet  throat  against  thy  corded  wrist, 
His  loosened  tongue  against  thy  doubled 

fist! 

The  MORAL  BULLY,  though  he  never 
swears, 

Nor  kicks  intruders  down  his  entry  stairs, 

Though  meekness  plants  his  backward- 
sloping  hat, 

And  non-resistance  ties  his  white  cravat, 

Though  his  black  broadcloth  glories  to  be 
seen 

In  the  same  plight  with  Shylock's  gaber 
dine, 

Hugs  the  same  passion  to  his  narrow 
breast 

That  heaves  the  cuirass  on  the  trooper's 
chest, 

Hears  the  same  hell-hounds  yelling  in  his 
rear 

That  chase  from  port  the  maddened  buc 
caneer, 

Feels  the  same  comfort  while  his  acrid 
words 

Turn  the  sweet  milk  of  kindness  into 
curds, 

Or  with  grim  logic  prove,  beyond  debate, 

That  all  we  love  is  worthiest  of  our  hate, 

As  the  scarred  ruffian  of  the  pirate's 
deck, 

When  his  long  swivel  rakes  the  staggering 
wreck  ! 


THE   OLD    PLAYER 


Heaven  keep  us  all  !       Is   every  rascal 

clown 
Whose  arm  is  stronger  free  to  knock    us 

down  ? 

Has  every  scarecrow,  whose  cachectic   soul 
Seems  fresh  from   Bedlam,   airing  on  pa 
role, 
Who,  though    he    carries    but    a    doubtful 

trace 

Of  angel  visits  on  his  hungry  face, 
From  lack  of  marrow  or  the  coins  to  pay, 
Has  dogged  some  vices  in  a  shabby  way, 
The   right   to   stick  us   with  his    cutthroat 

terms, 
And    bait    his    homilies    with    his    brother 


THE    MIXIVS    DIET 

Xo   life    worth    naming    ever    comes    to 

good 

If  alwavs  nourished  on  the  selfsame  food; 
The  creeping  mite  may  live  so  if  he  please, 
And  feed  on  Stilton  till  he  turns  to  cheese, 
But  cool  Magendie  proves  beyond  a  doubt, 
If  mammals  try  it,  that  their  eyes  drop 

out. 

Xo  reasoning  natures  find  it  safe  to  feed, 
For  their  sole  diet,  on  a  single  creed  ; 
It  spoils  their  eyeballs  while  it  spares  their 

tongues, 
And   starves   the  heart   to    feed  the  noisy 

lungs. 

When  the  first  larva?  on    the    elm    are 

seen, 
The  crawling  wretches,  like  its  leaves,  are 

green; 

Ere  chill  October  shakes  the  latest  down, 
They,  like  the  foliage,  change  their  tint  to 

brown; 
On    the    blue    flower   a    bluer    flower   you 

spy> 

You  stretch  to  pluck  it  —  't  is  a  butterfly  ; 
The  flattened  tree-toads  so  resemble  bark, 
They  're  hard  to  find  as  Ethiops  in  the 

dark; 

The  woodcock,  stiffening  to  fictitious  mud. 
Cheats  the   young  sportsman  thirsting  for 

his  blood  ; 

So  by  long  living  on  a  single  lie, 
Xay,  on  one  truth,   will   creatures   get   its 

dve  ; 


Red,  yellow,  green,  they  take  their  sub 
ject's  hue,  — 

Except  when  squabbling  turns  them  black 
and  blue  ! 


OUR    LIMITATIONS 

WE   trust   and    fear,    we    question    and 

believe, 
From  life's  dark  threads  a  trembling  faith 

to  weave. 

Frail  as  the  web  that  misty  night  has  spun, 
Whose  dew-gemmed  awnings  glitter  in  the 

sun. 
While  the  calm  centuries  spell  their  lessons 

out, 
Each  truth  we  conquer  spreads  the  realm 

of  doubt; 
When     Sinai's     summit      was     Jehovah's 

throne, 

The  chosen  Prophet  knew  his  voice  alone; 
When    Pilate's    hall    that    awful    question 

heard, 
The    Heavenly    Captive    answered    not    a 

word. 

Eternal   Truth  !   beyond   our   hopes    and 

fears 
Sweep    the     vast     orbits    of     thy    myriad 

spheres  ! 
From    age    to   nge,   while    History    carves 

sublime 
On   her  waste  rock  the  flaming   curves  of 

time, 

How  the  wild  swayings  of  our  planet  show 
That  worlds  unseen  surround  the  world  we 

know. 


THE    OLD    PLAYER 

THE  curtain  rose;  in  thunders  long  and 

loud 
The    galleries    rung;     the     veteran    actor 

bowed. 

In  flaming  line  the  telltales  of  the  stage 
Showed  on  his  brow  the  autograph  of  age; 
Pale,  hueless  waves  amid  his  clustered  hair, 
And  umbered  shadows,  prints  of  toil  and 

care  ; 
Round  the  wide  circle  glanced  his  vacant 

eye,  — 
He  strove  to  speak, — his  voice  was  but  a 

si<rh. 


86 


SONGS    IN   MANY   KEYS 


Year  after  year  had  seen  its  short-lived 

race 
Flit  past  the  scenes  and  others  take  their 

place; 
Yet  the  old  prompter  watched  his  accents 

still, 
His   name  still  flaunted  011  the   evening's 

bill. 

Heroes,  the  monarchs  of  the  scenic  floor, 
Had  died  in  earnest  and  were  heard  no 

more ; 
Beauties,  whose  cheeks  such  roseate  bloom 

o'erspread 
They  faced  the  footlights  in  tmborrowed 

red, 
Had     faded     slowly    through     successive 

shades 

To  gray  duennas,  foils  of  younger  maids; 
Sweet  voices  lost  the  melting  tones  that 

start 
With  Southern  throbs   the    sturdy    Saxon 

heart, 

While  fresh  sopranos  shook  the  painted  sky 
With    their     long,    breathless,     quivering 

locust-cry. 
Yet  there   he  stood,  —  the  man   of   other 

days, 

In  the  clear  present's  full,  unsparing  blaze, 
As  on  the  oak  a  faded  leaf  that  clings 
While  a  new  April  spreads  its  burnished 

wings. 

How   bright   yon   rows    that    soared  in 

triple  tier, 

Their  central  sun  the  flashing  chandelier  ! 
How  dim  the  eye  that  sought  with  doubtful 

aim 
Some  friendly  smile  it  still  might  dare  to 

claim  ! 
How  fresh  these  hearts  !  his  own  how  worn 

and  cold  ! 
Such   the    sad   thoughts   that    long-drawn 

sigh  had  told. 
No  word  yet  faltered  on  his  trembling 

tongue; 

Again,  again,  the  crashing  galleries  rung. 
As  the  old  guardsman  at  the  bugle's  blast 
Hears  in  its  strain  the  echoes  of  the  past, 
So,  as  the  plaudits  rolled  and  thundered 

round, 

A  life  of  memories  startled  at  the  sound. 
He  lived  again,  —  the  page  of  earliest 

days,  — 
Days    of     small    fee     and     parsimonious 

praise ; 


Then  lithe  young  Romeo  —  hark  that  sil 

vered  tone, 
From  those  smooth  lips  —  alas  !  they  were 

his  own. 
Then  the  bronzed  Moor,  with  all  his  love 

and  woe, 
Told  his  strange  tale  of  midnight  melting 

snow  ; 
And  dark-plumed  Hamlet,  with  his  cloak 

and  blade, 
Looked    on   the    royal    ghost,    himself    a 

shade. 
All   in  one    flash,    his    youthful   memories 

came, 

Traced  in  bright  hues  of  evanescent  flame, 
As   the    spent   swimmer's   in   the   lifelong 

dream, 
While   the  last  bubble   rises  through   the 

stream. 

Call  him  not  old,  whose  visionary  brain 
Holds  o'er  the  past  its  undivided  reign. 
For  him  in  vain  the  envious  seasons  roll 
Who  bears  eternal  summer  in  his  soul. 
If  yet  the  minstrel's  song,  the  poet's  lay, 
Spring  with  her  birds,  or  children  at  their 


Or  maiden's   smile,  or   heavenly  dream  of 

art, 
Stir  the  few  life-drops  creeping  round  his 

heart, 
Turn  to  the  record   where   his   years  are 

told,  — 
Count  his  gray  hairs,  —  they  cannot  make 

him  old  ! 
What    magic   power   has    changed   the 

faded  mime  ? 

One  breath  of  memory  on  the  dust  of  time. 
As  the  last  window  in  the  buttressed  wall 
Of  some  gray  minster  tottering  to  its  fall, 
Though  to  the  passing  crowd  its  hues  are 

spread, 

A  dull  mosaic,  yellow,  green,  and  red, 
Viewed  from  within,  a  radiant  glory  shows 
When  through  its  pictured  screen  the  sun 

light  flows, 

And  kneeling  pilgrims  on  its  storied  pane 
See  angels  glow  in  every  shapeless  stain; 
So  streamed  the  vision  through  his  sunken 

eye, 

Clad  in  the  splendors  of  his  morning  sky. 
All   the    wild   hopes    his  eager  boyhood 

knew, 
All  the  young  fancies   riper  years   proved 

true, 


DEDICATION    OF   THE    PITTSEIELD    CEMETERY 


87 


The  sweet,  low-whispered  words,  the  win 
ning  glance 

From  queens  of  song,  from  Houris  of  the 
dance, 

Wealth's  lavish  gift,  and  Flattery's  soothing- 
phrase, 

And  Beauty's  silence  when  her  blush  was 
praise, 

And  melting  Pride,  her  lashes  wet  with 
tears, 

Triumphs  and  banquets,  wreaths  and  crowns 
and  cheers, 

Pangs  of  wild  joy  that  perish  on  the 
tongue, 

And  all  that  poets  dream,  but  leave  un 
sung  ! 

In  every  heart   some  viewless  founts  are 

fed 
From  far-off  hillsides  where  the  dews  were 

shed: 

On  the  worn  features  of  the  weariest  face 
Some   youthful  memory  leaves  its    hidden 

trace, 

As  in  old  gardens  left  by  exiled  kings 
The  marble  basins  tell  of  hidden  springs, 
But,   gray  with   dust,  and   overgrown  with 

weeds. 

Their  choking  jets  the  passer  little  heeds. 
Till  time's  revenges  break  their  seals  away, 
And,    clad    in    rainbow    light,    the   waters 

play. 

Good  night,  fond  dreamer  !  let  the  cur 
tain  fall: 

The  world  's  a  stage,  and  we  are  players  all. 
A  strange  rehearsal  !     Kings  without  their 

crowns, 
And  threadbare  lords,  and   jewel-wearing 

clowns, 
Speak    the    vain    words  that    mock    their 

throbbing  hearts, 
As  Want,  stern  prompter  !  spells  them  out 

their  parts. 

The  tinselled  hero  whom  we  praise  and  pay 
Is  twice  an  actor  in  a  twofold  play. 
We  smile  at  children  when  a  painted  screen 
Seems  to  their  simple  eyes  a  real  scene; 
Ask    the    poor    hireling,  who    has    left  his 

throne 

To  seek  the  cheerless  home  he  calls  his  own, 
Which  of  his  double  lives  most  real  seems, 
The  world  of  solid  fact  or  scenic  dreams  ? 
Canvas,  or  clouds,  — the  footlights,  or  the 

spheres,  — 


The  play  of   two  short  hours,  or  seventy 

years  ? 
Dream  on  !     Though  Heaven  may  woo 

our  open  eyes, 
Through  their  closed  lids  we  look  on  fairer 

skies; 

Truth  is  for  other  worlds,  and  hope  for  this; 
The    cheating    future    lends   the    present's 

bliss; 
Life    is   a    running    shade,    with    fettered 

hands, 

That  chases  phantoms  over   shifting  sands, 
Death  a  still  spectre  on  a  marble  seat, 
With   ever  clutching  palms  and   shackled 

feet; 
The   airy  shapes  that  mock   life's  slender 

chain, 

The  flying  joys  he  strives  to  clasp  in  vain, 
Death  only  grasps;  to  live  is  to  pursue,  — 
Dream  on  !  there 's  nothing  but  illusion 

true  ! 


A    POEM 

DEDICATION  OF  TIIK  1'ITTSFIKLD  CKMK- 
TKRY,  SKPTK.MHKR  9,  [850 

ANGEL    of    Death  !     extend    thy    silent 

reign  ! 

Stretch  thy  dark  sceptre  o'er  this  new  do 
main  ! 

Xo  sable  car  along  the  winding  road 
Has  borne  to  earth  its  unresisting  load; 
Xo  sudden  mound  has  risen  yet  to  show 
Where   the  pale  slnmberer  folds  his  arms 

below; 

Xo  marble  gleams  to  bid  his  memory  live 
li\  the   brief  lines   that  hurrying   Time  can 

give ; 
Yet,    O     Destroyer  !  from    thy    shrouded 

throne 

Look  on  our  gift;  this  realm  is  all  thine 
own  ! 

Fair  is  the  scene;  its  sweetness  oft  be 
guiled 

From  their  dim  paths  the  children  of  the 
wild ; 

The  dark-haired  maiden  loved  its  grassy 
dells, 

The  feathered  warrior  claimed  its  wooded 
swells, 

Still  on  its  slopes  the  ploughman's  ridges 
show 


88 


SONGS    IN   MANY   KEYS 


The  pointed  flints  that  left  his  fatal  bo\v. 
Chipped  with  rough  art  aud  slow  barbarian 

toil,  — 
Last   of  his  wrecks  that  strews  the  alien 

soil! 
Here  spread  the  fields  that  heaped  their 

ripened  store 

Till  the  brown  arms  of  Labor  held  no  more; 
The  scythe's  broad  meadow  with  its  dusky 

blush ; 

The  sickle's  harvest  with  its  velvet  flush; 
The  green-haired  maize,  her  silken  tresses 

laid, 

In  soft  luxuriance,  on  her  harsh  brocade; 
The  gourd  that  swells  beneath  her  tossing 

plume ; 
The  coarser  wheat  that  rolls  in   lakes  of 

bloom,  — 

Its  coral  stems  and  milk-white  flowers  alive 
With  the  wide  murmurs  of  the  scattered 

hive ; 
Here  glowed  the  apple  with  the  pencilled 

streak 

Of  morning  painted  on  its  southern  cheek; 
The  pear's  long  necklace  strung  with  golden 

drops, 
Arched,  like  the   banian,  o'er  its  pillared 

props; 

Here  crept  the  growths  that  paid  the  la 
borer's  care 
With  the  cheap  luxuries  wealth  consents  to 

spare ; 
Here  sprang  the  healing  herbs  which  could 

not  save 

The  hand  that  reared  them  from  the  neigh 
boring  grave. 

Yet  all  its  varied  charms,  forever  free 
From  task  and  tribute,  Labor  yields  to  thee : 
No  more,  when  April  sheds  her  fitful  rain, 
The  sower's  hand  shall  cast  its  flying  grain; 
No  more,  when  Autumn  strews  the  flaming 

leaves, 
The  reaper's   band    shall   gird   its  yellow 

sheaves ; 

For  thee  alike  the  circling  seasons  flow 
Till   the   first   blossoms   heave    the    latest 

snow. 

In  the  stiff  clod  below  the  whirling  drifts, 
In  the  loose  soil  the  springing  herbage  lifts, 
In  the  hot  dust  beneath  the  parching  weeds, 
Life's  withering  flower  shall  drop  its 

shrivelled  seeds; 

Its  germ  entranced  in  thy  unbreathing  sleep 
Till  what  thou  sowest  mightier  angels  reap  ! 


Spirit  of  Beauty  !  let  thy  graces  blend 
With  loveliest  Nature  all  that  Art  can  lend. 
Come    from   the  bowers   where  Summer's 

life-blood  flows 
Through  the  red  lips  of  June's  half-open 

rose, 

Dressed   in   bright   hues,  the  loving  sun 
shine's  dower; 
For   tranquil   Nature    owns   no   mourning 

flower. 
Come  from  the  forest  where  the  beech's 

screen 
Bars  the  fierce  noonbeam  with  its  flakes  of 

green ; 
Stay  the  rude  axe  that  bares  the  shadowy 

plains, 
Stanch   the   deep   wound    that    dries    the 

maple's  veins. 

Come   with    the    stream    whose    silver- 
braided  rills 
Fling  their  unclasping  bracelets  from  the 

hills, 
Till   in   one   gleam,   beneath    the   forest's 

wings, 
Melts    the    white    glitter    of    a    hundred 

springs. 

Come  from  the  steeps  where  look  majes 
tic  forth 
From  their  twin  thrones  the  Giants  of  the 

North 
On  the  huge  shapes,  that,  crouching  at  their 

knees, 
Stretch  their  broad  shoulders,  rough  with 

shaggy  trees. 
Through  the  wide  waste  of  ether,  not  in 

vain, 
Their  softened  gaze  shall  reach  our  distant 

plain ; 
There,  while  the  mourner  turns  his  aching 

eyes 
On  the  blue  mounds  that  print  the   bluer 

skies, 

Nature  shall  whisper  that  the  fading  view 
Of  mightiest  grief  may   wear  a  heavenly 

hue. 

Cherub  of  Wisdom  !  let  thy  marble  page 
Leave  its  sad  lesson,  new  to  every  age; 
Teach  us  to  live,  not  grudging  every  breath 
To  the  chill  winds  that  waft  us  on  to  death, 
But  ruling  calmly  every  pulse  it  warms, 
And  tempering  gently  every  word  it  forms. 
Seraph  of  Love  !  in  heaven's  adoring  zone, 
Nearest  of  all  around  the  central  throne, 
While  with  soft  hands  the  pillowed  turf  we 

spread 


TO   GOVERNOR   SWAIN 


89 


That  soon  shall  hold  us  in  its  dreamless  bed, 
With  the  low  whisper,  —  Who  shall  first  be 

laid 
In     the     dark    chamber's     yet    unbroken 

shade  ?  — 
Let   thy   sweet    radiance    shine    rekindled 

here, 

And  all  we  cherish  grow  more  truly  dear. 
Here   in  the  gates  of   Death's  o'erhanging 

vault, 
Oh,  teach  us    kindness   for    our    brother's 

fault: 
Lay  all  our  wrongs  beneath   this   peaceful 

sod, 
And  lead  our  hearts  to  Mercy  and  its  God. 

FATHER  of   all  !    in    Death's    relentless 

claim 

We  read  thy  mercy  by  its  sterner  name; 
In  the  bright  flower  that  decks  the  solemn 

bier, 

We  see  thy  glory  in  its  narrowed  sphere; 
In  the  deep  lessons  that  affliction  draws, 
We  trace  the  curves  of  thy  encircling  laws; 
In  the  long  sigh  that  sets  our  spirits  free, 
\Ve   own    the    love   that    calls  us    back    to 

Thee  ! 

Through  the    hushed    street,    along    the 

silent  plain, 

The  spectral  future  leads  its  mourning  train, 
Dark  with  the  shadows  of  uncounted  bauds, 
Where  man's  white  lips  and  woman's  wring 
ing  hands 

Track  the  still  burden,  rolling  slow  before, 
That    love    and    kindness    can    protect    no 

more; 
The    smiling    babe    that,   called   to   mortal 

strife, 
Shuts   its   meek    eyes  and  drops    its   little 

life; 
The   drooping   child  who  prays  in  vain  to 

live, 

And  pleads  for  help  its  parent  cannot  give; 
The  pride  of  beauty  stricken  in  its  flower; 
The    strength    of    manhood    broken    in    an 

hour; 
Age   in  its  weakness,  bowed   by  toil    and 

care, 
Traced  in  sad  lines  beneath  its  silvered  hair. 

The  sun  shall  set,  and  heaven's  resplen 
dent  spheres 

Gild  the  smooth  turf   unhallowed  yet  by 
tears, 


But  ah  !  how  soon  the  evening  stars  will 

shed 
Their  sleepless  light  around  the  slumbering 

dead  ! 

Take  them,  O  Father,  in  immortal  trust  ! 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  kindred  dust, 
Till  the  last  angel  rolls  the  stone  awav. 
And  a  new  morning  brings  eternal  day  ! 

TO    GOVERNOR    SWAIN 

[Mr.  Robert  Swain  was  a  New  Bedford  mer 
chant,  who  became  the  owner  of  the  island  of 
Naushou,  where  he  exercised  a  generous  hos 
pitality,  and  was  given  the  title  of  Governor 
in  playful  affection.  He  had  a  passionate  love 
for  every  tree  and  stone  on  the  island,  and  was 
buried  in  a  beautiful  open  "lade  in  the  woods 
there.  The  island  passed  into  the  possession  of 
Mr.  John  M.  Forbes,  who  married  Governor 
Swain's  niece.  Dr.  Holmes  speaks  of  his  own 
entertainment  at  Naushou  in  tin;  Autocrat,  pp. 
:>'.)— il.  This  poem  was  written  at  Pittsliehl  in 

1851.] 

DEAR  GOVERNOR,  if  my  ski  it'  might  brave 

The  winds  that  lift  the  ocean  wave, 

The     mountain     stream     that    loops     and 

swerves 
Through    my  broad    meadow's   channelled 

curves 

Should  waft  me  on  from  bound  to  bound 
To  where  the  River  weds  the  Sound, 
The  Sound  should  give  me  to  the  Sea, 
That  to  the  Bay,  the  Bay  to  thee. 

It  may  not  be  ;  too  long  the  track 

To  follow  down  or  struggle  back. 

The  sun  has  set  on  fair  Naushon 

Long  ere  my  western  blaze  is  gone ; 

The  ocean  disk  is  rolling  dark 

In  shadows  round  your  swinging  bark, 

While  yet  the  yellow  sunset  lills 

The    stream   that    scarfs    my    spruce-clad 

hills; 

The  day-star  wakes  your  island  deer 
Long  ere  my  barnyard  chanticleer; 
Your  mists  are  soaring  in  the  blue 
While  mine  are  sparks  of  glittering  dew. 

It  may  not  be;  oh,  would  it  might, 
Could  I  live  o'er  that  glowing  night  ! 
What  golden  hours  would  come  to  life, 
What  goodly  feats  of  peaceful  strife,  — 
Such  jests,  that,  drained  of  every  joke, 


9° 


SONGS    IN    MANY    KEYS 


The  very  bank  of  language  broke,  — 
Such  deeds,  that  Laughter  nearly  died 
With  stitches  in  his  belted  side; 
While    Time,    caught   fast    in    pleasure's 

chain, 

His  double  goblet  snapped  in  twain, 
And  stood  with  half  in  either  hand,  — 
Both  brimming  full,  —  but  not  of  sand  ! 

It  may  not  be ;  I  strive  in  vain 

To  break  my  slender  household  chain,  — 

Three  pairs  of  little  clasping  hands, 

One  voice,  that  whispers,  not  commands. 

Even  while  my  spirit  flies  away, 

My  gentle  jailers  murmur  nay; 

All  shapes  of  elemental  wrath 

They  raise  along  my  threatened  path; 

The  storm  grows  black,  the  waters  rise, 

The  mountains  mingle  with  the  skies, 

The  mad  tornado  scoops  the  ground, 

The  midnight  robber  prowls  around,  — 

Thus,  kissing  every  limb  they  tie, 

They  draw  a  knot  and  heave  a  sigh, 

Till,  fairly  netted  in  the  toil, 

My  feet  are  rooted  to  the  soil. 

Only  the  soaring  wish  is  free  !  — 

And  that,  dear  Governor,  flies  to  thee  ! 


TO   AN    ENGLISH    FRIEND 

THE  seed  that  wasteful  autumn  cast 
To  waver  on  its  stormy  blast, 
Long  o'er  the  wintry  desert  tost, 
Its  living  germ  has  never  lost. 
Dropped  by  the  weary  tempest's  wing, 
It  feels  the  kindling  ray  of  spring, 
And,  starting  from  its  dream  of  death, 
Pours  on  the  air  its  perfumed  breath. 

So,  parted  by  the  rolling  flood, 

The  love  that  springs  from  common  blood 

Needs  but  a  single  sunlit  hour 

Of  mingling  smiles  to  bud  and  flower; 

Unharmed  its  slumbering  life  has  flown, 

From  shore  to  shore,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Where  summer's  falling  roses  stain 

The  tepid  waves  of  Pontchartrain, 

Or  where  the  lichen  creeps  below 

Katahdin's  wreaths  of  whirling  snow. 

Though  fiery  sun  and  stiffening  cold 
May  change  the  fair  ancestral  mould, 
No  winter  chills,  no  summer  drains 
The  life-blood  drawn  from  English  veins, 


Still  bearing  whereso'er  it  flows 
The  love  that  with  its  fountain  rose, 
Unchanged  by  space,  unwronged  by  time, 
From  age  to  age,  from  clime  to  clime  ! 

AFTER   A  LECTURE  ON  WORDS 
WORTH 

[In  1853  Dr.  Holmes  gave  a  course  of  lec 
tures  before  the  Lowell  Institute  in  Boston  on 
English  Poetry  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  and 
this  and  the  following'  five  poems  were  post- 
hides  to  the  lectures.] 

COME,  spread  your  wings,  as  I  spread  mine, 

And  leave  the  crowded  hall 
For  where  the  eyes  of  twilight  shine 

O'er  evening's  western  wall. 

These  are  the  pleasant  Berkshire  hills, 

Each  with  its  leafy  crown; 
Hark  !  from  their  sides  a  thousand  rills 

Come  singing  sweetly  down. 

A  thousand  rills;  they  leap  and  shine, 
Strained  through  the  shadowy  nooks, 

Till,  clasped  in  many  a  gathering  twine, 
They  swell  a  hundred  brooks. 

A  hundred  brooks,  and  still  they  run 
With  ripple,  shade,  and  gleam, 

Till,  clustering  all  their  braids  in  one, 
They  flow  a  single  stream. 

A  bracelet  spun  from  mountain  mist, 

A  silvery  sash  unwound, 
With  ox-bow  curve  and  sinuous  twist 

It  writhes  to  reach  the  Sound. 

This  is  my  bark, —  a  pygmy's  ship; 

Beneath  a  child  it  rolls; 
Fear  not,  —  one  body  makes  it  dip, 

But  not  a  thousand  souls. 

Float  we  the  grassy  banks  between; 

Without  an  oar  we  glide ; 
The  meadows,  drest  in  living  green, 

Unroll  on  either  side. 

Come,  take  the  book  we  love  so  well, 

And  let  us  read  and  dream 
We  see  whate'er  its  pages  tell, 

And  sail  an  English  stream. 

Up  to  the  clouds  the  lark  has  sprung, 
Still  trilling  as  he  flies; 


AFTER   A   LECTURE   ON    MOORE 


The  linnet  sings  as  there  lie  sung; 
The  unseen  cuckoo  cries, 

And  daisies  strew  the  banks  along, 

And  yellow  kingcups  shine, 
With  cowslips,  and  a  primrose  throng, 

And  humble  celandine. 

Ah  foolish  dream  !  when  Nature  nursed 

Her  daughter  in  the  West, 
The  fount  was  drained  that  opened  first  ; 

She  bared  her  other  breast. 

On  the  young  planet's  orient  shore 

Her  morning  hand  she  tried; 
Then  turned  the  broad  medallion  o'er 

And  stamped  the  sunset  side. 

Take  what  she  gives,  her  pine's  tall  stem, 

Her  elm  with  hanging  spray; 
She  wears  her  mountain  diadem 

Still  in  her  own  proud  way. 

Look  on  the  forests'  ancient  kings, 
The  hemlock's  towering  pride: 

Yon  trunk  had  thrice  a  hundred  rings, 
And  fell  before  it  died. 

Xor  think  that  Nature  saves  her  bloom 

And  slights  our  grassy  plain; 
For  us  she  wears  her  court  costume,  — 

Look  on  its  broidered  train; 

The  lily  with  the  sprinkled  dots, 
Brands  of  the  noontide  beam; 

The  cardinal,  and  the  blood-red  spots, 
Its  double  in  the  stream, 

As  if  some  wounded  eagle's  breast, 
Slow  throbbing1  o'er  the  plain, 

Had  left  its  airy  path  impressed 
In  drops  of  scarlet  rain. 

And  hark  !  and  hark  !  the  woodland  rings 
There  thrilled  the  thrush's  soul; 

And  look  !  that  flash  of  flamy  wings,  — 
The  fire-plumed  oriole  ! 

Above,  the  hen-hawk  swims  and  swoops, 
Flung  from  the  bright,  blue  sky; 

Below,  the  robin  hops,  and  whoops 
His  piercing  Indian  cry. 

Beauty  runs  virgin  in  the  woods 
Robed  in  her  rustic  green, 


And  oft  a  longing  thought  intrudes, 
As  if  we  might  have  seen 

Her  every  finger's  every  joint 
Ringed  with  some  golden  line, 

Poet  whom  Nature  did  anoint  ! 
Had  our  wild  home  been  thine. 

Yet  think  not  so  ;  Old  England's  blood 
Runs  warm  in  English  veins; 

But  wafted  o'er  the  icy  flood 
Its  better  life  remains: 

Our  children  know  each  wildwood  smell, 

The  bay  berry  and  the  fern, 
The  man  who  does  not  know  them  well 

Is  all  too  old  to  learn. 

Be  patient  !  On  the  breathing  page 

Still  pants  our  hurried  past; 
Pilgrim  and  soldier,  saint  and  sage,  — 

The  poet  comes  the  last  ! 

Though  still  the  lark-voiced  matins  ring 
The  world  has  known  so  long; 

The  wood-thrush  of  the  We.st  shall  sing- 
Earth's  last  sweet  even-son"'  ! 


AFTER    A    LECTURE   OX    MOORE 

SHINE  soft,  ye  trembling  tears  of  light 
That  strew  the  mourning  skies; 

Hushed  in  the  silent  dews  of  night 
The  harp  of  Erin  lies. 

What  though  her  thousand  years  have  past 

Of  poets,  saints,  and  kings, — 
Her  echoes  only  hear  the  last 

That  swept  those  golden  strings. 

Fling  o'er  his  mound,  ye  star-lit  bowers, 
The  balmiest  wreaths  ye  wear, 

\\  hose    breath    has    lent   your    earth-born 

flowers 
Heaven's  own  ambrosial  air. 

Breathe,  bird  of  night,  thy  softest  tone; 

By  shadowy  grove  and  rill; 
Thy  song  will  soothe  us  while  we  own 

That  his  was  sweeter  still. 

Stay,  pitying  Time,  thy  foot  for  him 

Who  gave  thee  swifter  wings, 
Nor  let  thine  envious  shadow  dim 

The  light  his  glory  flings. 


SONGS    IN   MANY   KEYS 


If  in  his  cheek  unholy  blood 
Burned  for  one  youthful  hour, 

'Twas  but  the  flushing  of  the  bud 
That  blooms  a  milk-white  flower. 

Take  him,  kind  mother,  to  thy  breast, 
Who  loved  thy  smiles  so  well, 

And  spread  thy  mantle  o'er  his  rest 
Of  rose  and  asphodel. 

The  bark  has  sailed  the  midnight  sea, 

The  sea  without  a  shore, 
That  waved  its  parting  sign  to  thee,  — 

"  A  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore  !  " 

And  thine  long  lingering  on  the  strand, 
Its  bright-lined  streamers  furled, 

Was  loosed  by  age,  with  trembling  hand, 
To  seek  the  silent  world. 

Not  silent !  no,  the  radiant  stars 

Still  singing  as  they  shine, 
Unheard  through  earth's  imprisoning  bars, 

Have  voices  sweet  as  thine. 

Wake,  then,  in  happier  realms  above, 

The  songs  of  bygone  years, 
Till  angels  learn  those  airs  of  love 

That  ravished  mortal  ears  ! 


AFTER   A   LECTURE   ON    KEATS 

"  Purpureos  spargam  flores." 

THE  wreath  that  star-crowned  Shelley  gave 
Is  lying  on  thy  Roman  grave, 
Yet  on  its  turf  young  April  sets 
Her  store  of  slender  violets; 
Though  all  the  Gods  their  garlands  shower, 
I  too  may  bring  one  purple  flower. 
Alas  !  what  blossom  shall  I  bring, 
That  opens  in  my  Northern  spring  ? 
The  garden  beds  have  all  run  wild, 
So  trim  when  I  was  yet  a  child; 
Flat  plantains  and  unseemly  stalks 
Have  crept  across  the  gravel  walks; 
The  vines  are  dead,  long,  long  ago, 
The  almond  buds  no  longer  blow. 
No  more  upon  its  mound  I  see 
The  azure,  plume-bound  fleur-de-lis; 
Where  once  the  tulips  used  to  show, 
In  straggling  tufts  the  pansies  grow; 
The  grass  has  quenched  my  white-rayed 
gem, 


The  flowering  "  Star  of  Bethlehem," 
Though  its  long  blade  of  glossy  green 
And  pallid  stripe  may  still  be  seen. 
Nature,  who  treads  her  nobles  down, 
And  gives  their  birthright  to  the  clown, 
Has  sown  her  base-born  weedy  things 
Above  the  garden's  queens  and  kings. 
Yet  one  sweet  flower  of  ancient  race 
Springs  in  the  old  familiar  place. 
When  snows  were  melting  down  the  vale, 
And  Earth  unlaced  her  icy  mail, 
And  March  his  stormy  trumpet  blew, 
And  tender  green  came  peeping  through, 
I  loved  the  earliest  one  to  seek 
That  broke  the  soil  with  emerald  beak, 
And  watch  the  trembling  bells  so  blue 
Spread  on  the  column  as  it  grew. 
Meek  child  of  earth  !  thou  wilt  not  shame 
The  sweet,  dead  poet's  holy  name; 
The  God  of  music  gave  thee  birth, 
Called  from  the  crimson-spotted  earth, 
Where,  sobbing  his  young  life  away, 
His  own  fair  Hyacinthus  lay. 
The  hyacinth  my  garden  gave 
Shall  lie  upon  that  Roman  grave  ! 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  SHELLEY 

ONE  broad,  white  sail  in  Spezzia's  treacher 
ous  bay; 

On  comes  the  blast;  too  daring  bark,  be 
ware  ! 
The  cloud  has  clasped  her  ;  lo  !  it  melts 

away ; 

The  wide,  waste  waters,  but  no  sail  is 
there. 

Morning:  a  woman  looking  on  the  sea; 
Midnight:  with  lamps  the  long  veranda 

burns ; 
Come,    wandering   sail,   they   watch,  they 

burn  for  thee  ! 
Suns  come  and  go,  alas  !  no  bark  returns. 

And   feet   are    thronging   on    the    pebbly 

sands, 

And  torches  flaring  in  the  weedy  caves, 
Where'er  the  waters  lay  with  icy  hands 
The   shapes   uplifted   from    their    coral 
graves. 

Vainly  they  seek;  the  idle  quest  is  o'er; 
The  coarse,  dark  women,  with  their  hang 
ing  locks, 


AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  COURSE  OF  LECTURES 


93 


And  lean,  wild  children  gather  from  the 

shore 
To  the  black  hovels  bedded  in  the  rocks. 

But  Love  still  prayed,  with  agonizing  wail, 
"  One,  one  last  look,  ye  heaving  waters, 

yield  !  " 

Till  Ocean,  clashing  in  his  jointed  mail, 
Raised    the    pale     burden    on    his    level 
shield. 

Slow  from  the  shore  the  sullen  waves  retire  ; 

His  form  a  nobler  element  shall  claim; 
Nature  baptized  him  in  ethereal  fire, 

And  Death  shall  crown  him  with  a  wreath 
of  flame. 

Fade,  mortal  semblance,  never  to  return; 

Swift  is  the  change  within  thy  crimson 

shroud; 
Seal  the  white  ashes  in  the  peaceful  urn; 

All  else  has  risen  in  yon  silvery  cloud. 

Sleep  where  thy  gentle  Adonais  lies, 

Whose  open  page  lay  on  thy  dying  heart, 

Both  in  the   smile    of    those    blue-vaulted 

skies, 
Earth's  fairest  dome  of  all  divinest  art. 

Breathe  for  his  wandering  soul  one  passing 

sigh, 
O    happier   Christian,    while    thine    eye 

grows  dim,  — 

In  all  the  mansions  of  the  house  on  high, 
Say  not  that  Mercy  has  not  one  for  him  ! 

AT    THE    CLOSE    OF    A    COURSE 
OF    LECTURES 

As  the  voice  of  the  watch  to  the  mariner's 

dream, 
As  the  footstep  of  Spring  on  the  ice-girdled 

stream. 
There  comes  a  soft  footstep,  a  whisper,  to 

me,  — 
The  vision  is  over,  — the  rivulet  free  ! 

We  have  trod  from  the  threshold  of  turbu 
lent  March, 

Till  the  green  scarf  of  April  is  hung  on  the 
larch, 

And  down  the  bright  hillside  that  welcomes 
the  day, 

We  hear  the  warm  panting  of  beautiful 
May. 


We  will  part  before   Summer  has  opened 

her  wing, 
And  the  bosom  of  June  swells  the  bodice  of 

Spring, 
While  the  hope  of  the  season  lies  fresh  in 

the  bud, 
And  the  young  life  of  Nature  runs  warm  in 

our  blood. 

It  is  but  a  word,  and  the  chain  is  unbound, 
The  bracelet  of  steel  drops  unclasped  to  the 

ground ; 
No  hand  shall  replace  it,  —  it  rests  where 

it  fell,  — 
It  is  but  one  word  that  we  all  know  too  well. 

Yet  the  hawk  with  the  wildness  untamed 
in  his  eye, 

If  you  free  him,  stares  round  ere  he  springs 
to  the  sky; 

The  slave  whom  no  longer  his  fetters  re 
strain 

Will  turn  for  a  moment  and  look  at  his 
chain. 

Our  parting  is    not    as    the    friendship  of 

years, 
That  chokes   with   the    blessing    it    speaks 

through  its  tears; 
We  have  walked  in  a  garden,  and,  looking 

around, 
Have  plucked  a  few  leaves  from  the  myrtles 

we  found. 

But  now  at  the  gate  of  the  garden  we  stand, 
And  the  moment  has  come  for  unclasping 

the  hand; 
Will  you  drop  it  like  lead,  and  in  silence 

retreat 
Like   the   twenty  crushed  forms   from   an 

omnibus  seat  ? 

Nay!  hold  it  one  moment,  —  the   last  we 

mav  share,  — 
I  stretch   it  in  kindness,  and   not   for  my 

fare; 
You  may  pass  through  the  doorway  in  rank 

or  in  file, 
If  your  ticket  from  Nature  is  stamped  with 

a  smile. 

For  the  sweetest  of  smiles  is  the  smile  as 

we  part. 
When  the  light  round  the  lips  is  a  ray  from 

the  heart; 


94 


SONGS   IN   MANY   KEYS 


And   lest  a  stray  tear  from   its  fountain 

might  swell, 
We  will  seal  the  bright  spring  with  a  quiet 

farewell. 


THE    HUDSON 

AFTER   A    LECTURE   AT    ALBANY 
[Given  in  December,  1854.] 

'T  WAS  a  vision  of   childhood   that   came 

with  its  dawn, 
Ere  the  curtain  that  covered  life's  day-star 

was  drawn; 
The  nurse  told  the  tale  when  the  shadows 

grew  long, 
And  the  mother's  soft  lullaby  breathed  it 

in  song. 

"  There  flows  a  fair  stream  by  the  hills  of 

the  West,"  — 
She    sang   to  her  boy  as  he   lay   on   her 

breast; 
"  Along   its    smooth    margin    thy   fathers 

have  played; 
Beside   its   deep   waters  their    ashes    are 

laid." 

I   wandered   afar   from   the   land   of    my 

birth, 

I  saw  the  old  rivers,  renowned  upon  earth, 
But  fancy  still  painted  that  wide-flowing 

stream 
With  the  inany-hued  pencil   of   infancy's 

dream. 

I  saw  the  green  banks  of  the  castle- 
crowned  Rhine, 

Where  the  grapes  drink  the  moonlight  and 
change  it  to  wine; 

I  stood  by  the  Avon,  whose  waves  as  they 
glide 

Still  whisper  his  glory  who  sleeps  at  their 
side. 

But   my   heart    would  still  yearn  for  the 

sound  of  the  waves 
That  sing  as  they  flow  by  my  forefathers' 

graves; 
If  manhood  yet  honors  my  cheek  with  a 

tear, 
I  care  not  who  sees  it,  —  nor  blush  for  it 

here! 


Farewell   to  the  deep-bosomed  stream  of 

the  West  ! 
I  fling  this  loose  blossom  to  float  on  its 

breast; 
Nor  let  the  dear  love  of  its  children  grow 

cold, 
Till  the  channel  is  dry  where  its  waters 

have  rolled  ! 

THE    NEW    EDEN 

MEETING  OF  THE  BERKSHIRE  HORTICUL 
TURAL  SOCIETY,  AT  STOCKBRIDGE, 
SEPTEMBER  l6,  1854 

[Mr.  J.  E.  A.  Smith,  in  his  The  Poet  among 
the  Hills,  says  that  the  theme  of  this  poem  was 
suggested  by  the  severe  drought  in  Berkshire 
County  in  the  summer  of  3  854,  and  that  after 
delivering"  the  poem  Dr.  Holmes  acceded  to  the 
request  of  a  local  editor  who  wished  to  print 
it,  on  condition  that  he  should  have  as  many 
proofs  and  make  as  many  alterations  as  he 
chose,  and  in  the  end  a  hundred  copies  of  the 
poem  printed  by  itself.  He  had  sixteen  proofs 
and  doubled  the  length  of  the  poem  ;  besides 
giving1  it  a  more  serious  tone.] 

SCARCE  could  the  parting  ocean  close, 
Seamed    by   the    Mayflower's    cleaving 

bow, 
When  o'er  the  rugged  desert  rose 

The  waves  that  tracked    the    Pilgrim's 
plough. 

Then   sprang    from   many   a   rock-strewn 
field 

The  rippling  grass,  the  nodding  grain, 
Such  growths  as  English  meadows  yield 

To  scanty  sun  and  frequent  rain. 

But  when  the  fiery  days  were  done, 
And  Autumn  brought  his  purple  haze, 
sun, 


Then,  kindling  in  the  slante 

The    hillsides     gleamed     with 


golden 


The  food  was  scant,  the  fruits  were  few: 
A  red-streak  glistening  here  and  there ; 

Perchance  in  statelier  precincts  grew 
Some  stern  old  Puritanic  pear. 

Austere  in  taste,  and  tough  at  core, 
Its  unrelenting  bulk  was  shed, 

To  ripen  in  the  Pilgrim's  store 

When  all  the  summer  sweets  were  fled. 


THE    NEW   EDEN 


95 


Such  was  his  lot,  to  front  the  storm 
With  iron  heart  and  marble  brow, 

Xor  ripen  till  his  earthly  form 

Was  cast  from  life's  autumnal  bough. 

But  ever  on  the  bleakest  rock 

We  bid  the  brightest  beacon  glow, 

And  still  upon  the  thorniest  stock 
The  sweetest  roses  love  to  blow. 

So  on  our  rude  and  wintry  soil 

We  feed  the  kindling  flame  of  art, 

And  steal  the  tropic's  blushing  spoil 
To  bloom  on  Nature's  ice-clad  heart. 

See  how  the  softening  Mother's  breast 
Warms  to  her  children's  patient  wiles,  — 

Her  lips  by  loving  Labor  pressed 

Break  in  a  thousand  dimpling  smiles, 

From  when  the  flushing  bud  of  June 
Dawns  with  its  first  auroral  hue, 

Till  shines  the  rounded  harvest-moon, 
And  velvet  dahlias  drink  the  dew. 

Nor  these  the  only  gifts  she  brings; 

Look  where  the  laboring  orchard  groans, 
And  yields  its  beryl-threaded  strings 

For  chestnut  burs  and  hemlock  cones. 

Dear  though  the  shadowy  maple  be, 
And  dearer  still  the  whispering  pine, 

Dearest  yon  russet-laden  tree 

Browned  by  the  heavy  rubbing  kine  ! 

There  childhood  flung  its  rustling  stone, 
There    venturous    boyhood    learned    to 
climb,  — 

How  well  the  early  graft  was  known 
Whose  fruit  was  ripe  ere  harvest-time  ! 

Nor  be  the  Fleming's  pride  forgot, 

AVith  swinging  drops  and  drooping  bells, 

Freckled    and    splashed    with    streak    and 

spot, 
On  the  warm-breasted,  sloping  swells; 

Nor  Persia's  painted  garden-queen,  — 
Frail  Houri  of  the  trellised  wall.  — 

Her     deep-  cleft      bosom      scarfed      with 

green, — 
Fairest  to  see,  and  first  to  fall. 


When  man  provoked  his  mortal  doom, 
And  Eden  trembled  as  he  fell, 

When  blossoms  sighed  their  last  perfume, 
And  branches  waved  their  long  farewell, 

One  sucker  crept  beneath  the  gate, 
One  seed  was  wafted  o'er  the  wall, 

One  bough  sustained  his  trembling  weight; 
These  left  the  garden,  — these  were  all. 

And  far  o'er  many  a  distant  zone 

These  wrecks  of  Eden  still  are  flung: 

The  fruits  that  Paradise  hath  known 
Are  still  in  earthly  gardens  hung. 

Yes,  by  our  own  unstoried  stream 
The  pink-white  apple-blossoms  burst 

That  saw  the  young  Euphrates  gleam,  — 
That  Gihon's  circling  waters  nursed. 

For  us  the  ambrosial  pear  displays 
The  wealth  its  arching  branches  hold, 

Bathed  by  a  hundred  summery  days 
In  floods  of  mingling  fire  and  gold. 

And  here,  where  beauty's  check  of  flame 
With  morning's  earliest  beam  is  fed, 

The  sunset-painted  peach  may  claim 
To  rival  its  celestial  red. 


What  though  in  some  unmoistened  vale 
The  summer  leaf  grow  brown  and  sere, 

Say,  shall  our  star  of  promise  fail 
That  circles  half  the  rolling  sphere, 

From  beat-lies  salt  with  bitter  spray, 
O'er  prairies  green  with  softest  rain, 

And  ridges  bright  with  evening's  ray, 
To  rocks  that  shade  the  stormless  main  ? 

If  by  our  slender-threaded  streams 
The  blade  and  leaf  and  blossom  die, 

If,  drained  by  noontide's  parching  beams, 
The  milky  veins  of  Nature  dry, 

See,  with  her  swelling  bosom  bare, 
Yon  wild-eyed  Sister  in  the  West,  — 

The  ring  of  Empire  round  her  hair, 
The  Indian's  wampum  on  her  breast  ! 

We  saw  the  August  sun  descend, 
Day  after  day,  with  blood-red  stain, 

And  the  blue  mountains  dimly  blend 

With  smoke-wreaths   from  the   burning 
plain; 


96 


SONGS   IN    MANY   KEYS 


Beneath  the  hot  Sirocco's  wings 

We  sat  and  told  the  withering  hours, 

Till  Heaven  unsealed  its  hoarded  springs, 
And  bade  them  leap  in  flashing  showers. 

Yet  in  our  Ishmael's  thirst  we  knew 
The  mercy  of  the  Sovereign  hand 

Would  pour  the  fountain's  quickening  dew 
To  feed  some  harvest  of  the  land. 

No  flaming  swords  of  wrath  surround 
Our  second  Garden  of  the  Blest; 

It  spreads  beyond  its  rocky  bound, 
It  climbs  Nevada's  glittering  crest. 

God  keep  the  tempter  from  its  gate  ! 

God  shield  the  children,  lest  they  fall 
From  their  stern  fathers'  free  estate,  — 

Till  Ocean  is  its  only  wall  ! 


SEMI -  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRA 
TION  OF  THE  NEW  ENGLAND 
SOCIETY 

NEW   YORK,    DECEMBER  22,   1855 

NEW  ENGLAND,  we  love  thee ;  no  time  can 

erase 
From  the  hearts  of  thy  children  the  smile 

on  thy  face. 
'T  is  the  mother's  fond  look  of  affection  and 

pride, 
As  she  gives  her  fair  son  to  the  arms  of  his 

bride. 

His  bride  may  be  fresher  in  beauty's  young 

flower; 
She  may  blaze  in  the  jewels  she  brings  with 

her  dower. 
But  passion  must  chill  in  Time's  pitiless 

blast; 
The  one  that  first  loved  us  will  love  to  the 

last. 

You  have  left  the  dear  land  of  the  lake  and 
the  hill, 

But  its  winds  and  its  waters  .will  talk  with 
you  still. 

"  Forget  not,"  they  whisper,  "  your  love  is 
our  debt," 

And  echo  breathes  softly,  "  We  never  for 
get." 


The  banquet's  gay  splendors  are  gleaming 

around, 
But  your  hearts  have  flown  back  o'er  the 

waves  of  the  Sound; 
They  have  found  the  brown  home  where 

their  pulses  were  born; 
They  are  throbbing  their  way  through  the 

trees  and  the  corn. 

There  are  roofs  you  remember,  —  their 
glory  is  fled; 

There  are  mounds  in  the  churchyard,  —  one 
sigh  for  the  dead. 

There  are  wrecks,  there  are  ruins,  all  scat 
tered  around; 

But  Earth  has  no  spot  like  that  corner  of 
ground. 

Come,  let  us  be  cheerful,  —  remember  last 

night, 
How  they  cheered  us,  and  —  never  mind  — 

meant  it  all  right; 
To-night,  we  harm  nothing,  —  we  love  in  the 

lump; 
Here 's  a  bumper  to  Maine,  in  the  juice  of 

the  pump  ! 

Here  's  to  all  the  good  people,  wherever 
they  be, 

Who  have  grown  in  the  shade  of  the  liberty- 
tree; 

We  all  love  its  leaves,  and  its  blossoms  and 
fruit, 

But  pray  have  a  care  of  the  fence  round  its 
root. 

We  should  like  to  talk  big;  it  's  a  kind  of  a 

right, 
When  the  tongue  has  got   loose  and  the 

waistband  grown  tight; 
But,  as  pretty  Miss  Prudence  remarked  to 

her  beau, 
On  its  own  heap  of  compost  no  biddy  should 

crow. 

Enough  !  There  are  gentlemen  waiting  to 
talk, 

Whose  words  are  to  mine  as  the  flower  to 
the  stalk. 

Stand  by  your  old  mother  whatever  be 
fall; 

God  bless  all  her  children  !  Good  night  to 
you  all ! 


FOR   THE   MEETING   OF   THE   BURNS    CLUB 


97 


FAREWELL 

TO   J.   R.    LOWELL 

[On  the  occasion  of    Lowell's  going   abroad 
in  the  spring'  of  1855.] 

FAREWELL,  for  the  bark  has  her  breast  to 

the  tide, 
And  the  rough  arms  of  Ocean  are  stretched 

for  his  bride; 
The  winds  from  the  mountain  stream  over 

the  bay; 
One    clasp    of   the    hand,    then  away    and 

away  ! 

I    see    the    tall    mast    as    it    rocks    by  the 

shore; 

The  sun  is  declining,  I  see  it  once  more; 
To-day  like    the    blade   in  a  thick-waving 

"  field, 
To-morrow    the  spike    on   a    Highlander's 

shield. 

Alone,  while  the  cloud  pours  its  treacherous 

breath, 
With    the   blue    lips  all  round   her   whose 

kisses  are  death; 
All,  think  not  the  breeze  that  is  urging  her 

sail 
Has  left  her  unaided    to    strive   with    the 

gale. 

There  are  hopes  that  play  round  her,  like 
fires  on  the  mast. 

That  will  light  the  dark  hour  till  its  dan 
ger  has  past; 

There  are  prayers  that  will  plead  with  the 
storm  when  it  raves, 

And  whisper  "Be  still  ! ?'  to  the  turbulent 
waves. 

Xay,  think  not   that   Friendship  has  called 

us  in  vain 

To  join  the  fair  ring  ere  we  break  it  again; 
There  is  strength  in  its   circle, — you  lose 

the  bright  star, 
But  its  sisters  still  chain  it,  though  shining 

afar. 

I  give  you  one   health  in  the  juice  of  the 

vine, 
The   blood    of    the  vineyard    shall    mingle 

with  mine  : 


Tims,  thus  let  us  drain  the  last  dew-drops 

of  gold, 
As   we  empty  our  hearts  of  the  blessings 

they  hold. 


FOR     THE     MEETING     OF     THE 
BURNS   CLUB 

1856 

THE  mountains  glitter  in  the  snow 

A  thousand  leagues  asunder; 
Yet  here,  amid  the  banquet's  glow, 

I  hear  their  voice  of  thunder; 
Each  giant's  ice-bound  goblet  clinks; 

A  flowing  stream  is  summoned; 
Wachnsett  to  Ben  Nevis  drinks; 

Moiiadnock  to  Ben  Lomond  ! 

Though    years   have    clipped    the     eagle's 
plume 

That  crowned  the  chieftain's  bonnet, 
The  sun  still  sees  the  heather  bloom, 

The  silver  mists  lie  on  it; 
With  tartan  kilt  and  philibeg, 

What  stride  was  ever  bolder 
Than  his  who  showed  the  naked  leg 

Beneath  the  plaided  shoulder? 

The  echoes  sleep  on  Cheviot's  hills, 

That  heard  the  bugles  blowing 
When  down  their  sides  the  crimson  rills 

With  mingled  blood  were  tlowing; 
The  hunts  where  gallant  hearts  were  game, 

The  slashing  on  the  border, 
The  raid    that    swooped    with    sword    and 
flame, 

Give  place  to  '•  law  and  order." 

Not  while  the  rocking  steeples  reel 

With  midnight  tocsins  ringing, 
Not  while  the  crashing  war-notes  peal, 

God  sets  his  poets  singing; 
The  bird  is  silent  in  the  night, 

Or  shrieks  a  cry  of  warning 
j   While  fluttering  round  the  beacon-light,  — 

But  hear  him  greet  the  morning  ! 

The  lark  of  Scotia's  morning  sky  ! 

Whose  voice  may  sing  his  praises  ? 
With  Heaven's  own  sunlight  in  his  eye, 

He  walked  among  the  daisies, 
Till  through  the  cloud  of  fortune's  wrong 

He  soared  to  fields  of  glory; 


98 


SONGS    IN    MANY    KEYS 


But  left  his  land  her  sweetest  song 
And  earth  her  saddest  story. 

'T  is  not  the  forts  the  builder  piles 

That  chain  the  earth  together; 
The  wedded  crowns,  the  sister  isles, 

Would  laugh  at  such  a  tether; 
The  kindling  thought,  the  throbbing  words, 

That  set  the  pulses  beating, 
Are  stronger  than  the  myriad  swords 

Of  mighty  armies  meeting. 

Thus  while  within  the  banquet  glows, 

Without,  the  wild  winds  whistle, 
We  drink  a  triple  health,  —  the  Rose, 

The  Shamrock,  and  the  Thistle  ! 
Their  blended  hues  shall  never  fade 

Till  War  has  hushed  his  cannon,  — 
Close-twined  as  ocean-currents  braid 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon  ! 


ODE      FOR      WASHINGTON'S 
BIRTHDAY 

CELEBRATION  OF  THE  MERCANTILE 
LIBRARY  ASSOCIATION,  FEBRUARY  24, 
1856 

WELCOME  to  the  day  returning, 

Dearer  still  as  ages  flow, 
While  the  torch  of  Faith  is  burning, 

Long  as  Freedom's  altars  glow  ! 
See  the  hero  whom  it  gave  us 

Slumbering  on  a  mother's  breast; 
For  the  arm  he  stretched  to  save  us, 

Be  its  morn  forever  blest  ! 

Hear  the  tale  of  youthful  glory, 

While  of  Britain's  rescued  band 
Friend  and  foe  repeat  the  story, 

Spread  his  fame  o'er  sea  and  land, 
Where  the  red  cross,  proudly  streaming, 

Flaps  above  the  frigate's  deck, 
Where  the  golden  lilies,  gleaming, 

Star  the  watch-towers  of  Quebec. 

Look  !     The  shadow  on  the  dial 

Marks  the  hour  of  deadlier  strife; 
Days  of  terror,  years  of  trial, 

Scourge  a  nation  into  life. 
Lo,  the  youth,  become  her  leader  ! 

All  her  baffled  tyrants  yield; 
Through  his  arm  the  Lord  hath  freed  her; 

Crown  him  on  the  tented  field  ! 


Vain  is  Empire's  mad  temptation  ! 

Not  for  him  an  earthly  crown  ! 
lie  whose  sword  hath  freed  a  nation 

Strikes  the  offered  sceptre  down. 
See  the  throneless  Conqueror  seated, 

Ruler  by  a  people's  choice; 
See  the  Patriot's  task  completed; 

Hear  the  Father's  dying  voice  ! 

"By  the  name  that  you  inherit, 

By  the  sufferings  you  recall, 
Cherish  the  fraternal  spirit; 

Love  your  country  first  of  all  ! 
Listen  not  to  idle  questions 

If  its  bands  may  be  untied; 
Doubt  the  patriot  whose  suggestions 

Strive  a  nation  to  divide  !  " 

Father  !     We,  whose  ears  have  tingled 

With  the  discord-notes  of  shame,  — 
We,  whose  sires  their  blood  have  mingled 

In  the  battle's  thunder-flame,  — 
Gathering,  while  this  holy  morning 

Lights  the  land  from  sea  to  sea, 
Hear  thy  counsel,  heed  thy  warning; 

Trust  us,  while  we  honor  thee  ! 


BIRTHDAY     OF     DANIEL     WEB 
STER 

JANUARY    1 8,    1856 

WHEN  life  hath  run  its  largest  round 
Of  toil  and  triumph,  joy  and  woe, 

How  brief  a  storied  page  is  found 
To  compass  all  its  outward  show  ! 

The  world-tried  sailor  tires  and  droops; 

His  flag  is  rent,  his  keel  forgot; 
His  farthest  voyages  seem  but  loops 

That  float  from  life's  entangled  knot. 

But  when  within  the  narrow  space 

Some  larger  soul  hath  lived  and  wrought, 

Whose  sight  was  open  to  embrace 

The    boundless    realms    of     deed     and 
thought,  — 

When,  stricken  by  the  freezing  blast, 

A  nation's  living  pillars  fall, 
How  rich  the  storied  page,  how  vast, 

A  word,  a  whisper,  can  recall  ! 

No  medal  lifts  its  fretted  face, 

Nor  speaking  marble  cheats  your  eye, 


THE   VOICELESS 


99 


Yet,  while  these  pictured  lines  I  trace, 
A  living  image  passes  by: 

A  roof  beneath  the  mountain  pines; 

The  cloisters  of  a  hill-girt  plain; 
The  front  of  life's  embattled  lines; 

A  mound  beside  the  heaving  main. 

These  are  the  scenes:  a  boy  appears; 

Set  life's  round  dial  in  the  sun. 
Count  the  swift  arc  of  seventy  years, 

His  frame  is  dust;  his  task  is  done. 

Yet  pause  upon  the  noontide  hour, 
Ere  the  declining  sun  has  laid     . 

His  bleaching  rays  on  manhood's  power, 
And  look  upon  the  mighty  shade. 

Xo  gloom  that  stately  shape  can  hide, 
No  change  uncrown  its  brow;  behold  ! 

Dark,  calm,  large-fronted,  lightning-eyed, 
Earth  has  no  double  from  its  mould  ! 

Ere  from  the  fields  by  valor  won 
The  battle-smoke  had  rolled  awav, 

And  bared  the  blood-red  setting  sun, 
His  eyes  were  opened  on  the  day. 

His  land  was  but  a  shelving  strip 

Black  with  the  strife  that  made  it  free; 

He  lived  to  see  its  banners  dip 
Their  fringes  in  the  Western  sea. 

The  boundless  prairies  learned  his  name, 
His  words  the  mountain  echoes  knew, 

The  Northern  breezes  swept  his  fame 
Erom  icy  lake  to  warm  bayou. 

In  toil  he  lived;  in  peace  he  died; 

When  life's  full  cycle  was  complete, 
Put  oft'  his  robes  of  power  and  pride, 

And  laid  them  at  his  Master's  feet. 

His  rest  is  by  the  storm-swept  waves 

Whom  life's  wild  tempests  roughly  tried, 

Whose  heart  was  like  the  streaming  caves 
Of  ocean,  throbbing  at  his  side. 

Death's  cold  white  hand  is  like  the  snow 
Eaid  softly  on  the  furrowed  hill, 

It  hides  the  broken  seams  below, 

And  leaves  the  summit  brighter  still. 

In  vain  the  envious  tongue  upbraids; 
His  name  a  nation's  heart  shall  keep 


Till  morning's  latest  sunlight  fades 
On  the  blue  tablet  of  the  deep  ! 


THE    VOICELESS 

[''Read  what  the  singing-women —  one  to 
ten  thousand  of  the  suffering'  women  — tell  us, 
and  think  of  the  griefs  that  die  unspoken ! 
Nature  is  in  earnest  when  she  makes  a  woman  ; 
and  there  are  women  enough  lying'  in  the  next 
churchyard  with  very  commonplace  blue  slate 
stones  at  their  head  and  feet,  for  whom  it  was 
just  as  true  that  '  all  sounds  of  life  assumed  one 
tone  of  love.'  as  for  Letitia  Landon,  of  whom 
Elizabeth  Browning-  said  it ;  but  she  could  give 
words  to  her  grief,  and  they  could  not.  —  AVill 
you  hear  a  few  stanzas  of  mine  ?  "'  The  Auto 
crat  of  the  Brcakfaxt  Table,  p.  300.] 

WE  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where   the   sweet  wailing  singers  slum 
ber, 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The  wild-flowers  who  will  stoop  to  num 
ber  ? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them:  — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them  ! 

Nav,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose   song   has  told    their   hearts'   sad 

story,  — 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 

The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory  ! 
Not  where  Lencadian  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 

On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pillow. 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  longed-for  wine 

Slow-dropped    from    Misery's    crushing 

presses,  — 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven  ! 


THE    TWO    STREAMS 

[In  his  paper.  My  Hunt  after  the  Captain,  Dr. 
Holmes  has  a  paragraph  upon  an  alleged  pla- 


[00 


SONGS    IN    MANY   KEYS 


giarism  in  this  poem.     It  will  be  found  in  the 
Notes  at  the  end  of  this  volume.] 

BEHOLD  the  rocky  wall 
That  down  its  sloping  sides 
Pours   the  swift   rain-drops,   blending,   as 

they  fall, 
In  rushing  river-tides  ! 

Yon  stream,  whose  sources  run 
Turned  by  a  pebble's  edge, 
Is  Athabasca,  rolling  toward  the  sun 
Through  the  cleft  mountain-ledge. 

The  slender  rill  had  strayed, 
But  for  the  slanting  stone, 
To  evening's  ocean,  with  the  tangled  braid 
Of  foam-flecked  Oregon. 

So  from  the  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends, 
And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender  rill, 
Each  widening  torrent  bends,  — 

From  the  same  cradle's  side, 
From  the  same  mother's  knee,  — 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen  tide, 
One  to  the  Peaceful  Sea  ! 


THE   PROMISE 

NOT  charity  we  ask, 
Nor  yet  thy  gift  refuse; 
Please  thy  light  fancy  with  the  easy  task 
Only  to  look  and  choose. 

The  little-heeded  toy 
That  wins  thy  treasured  gold 
May  be  the  dearest  memory,  holiest  joy, 
Of  coming  years  untold. 

Heaven  rains  on  every  heart, 
But  there  its  showers  divide, 
The  drops  of  mercy  choosing,  as  they  part, 
The  dark  or  glowing  side. 

One  kindly  deed  may  turn 
The  fountain  of  thy  soul 
To  love's  sweet  day-star,  that  shall  o'er  thee 

burn 
Long  as  its  currents  roll ! 

The  pleasures  thou  hast  planned,  — 
Where  shall  their  memory  be 


When  the  white  angel  with  the  freezing 

hand 
Shall  sit  and  watch  by  thee  ? 

Living,  thou  dost  not  live, 
If  mercy's  spring  run  dry  ; 
What  Heaven  has  lent  thee  wilt  thou  freely 

give, 
Dying,  thou  shalt  not  die  ! 

HE  promised  even  so  ! 
To  thee  his  lips  repeat,  — 
Behold,  the  tears  that  soothed  thy  sister's 

woe 
Have  washed  thy  Master's  feet. 

AVIS 

This  is  a  true  story.  Avis,  Avise,  or  Avice 
(they  pronounce  it  Avvis)  is  a  real  breathing- 
person.  Her  home  is  not  more  than  an  hour 
and  a  half's  space  from  the  palaces  of  the  great 
ladies  who  might  like  to  look  at  her.  They 
may  see  her  and  the  little  black  girl  she  gave 
herself  to,  body  and  soul,  when  nobody  else 
could  bear  the  sight  of  her  infirmity,  —  leaving 
home  at  noon,  or  even  after  breakfast,  and 
coming  back  in  season  to  undress  for  the  even 
ing's  party. 

I  MAY  not  rightly  call  thy  name,  — 
Alas  !  thy  forehead  never  knew 

The  kiss  that  happier  children  claim, 
Nor  glistened  with  baptismal  dew. 

Daughter  of  want  and  wrong  and  woe, 
I  saw  thee  with  thy  sister-band, 

Snatched  from  the  whirlpool's  narrowing 

flow 
By  Mercy's  strong  yet  trembling  hand. 

"  Avis  !  "  —  With  Saxon  eye  and  cheek, 

At  once  a  woman  and  a  child, 
The  saint  uncrowned  I  came  to  seek 

Drew   near   to    greet   us,  —  spoke,   and 
smiled. 

God  gave  that  sweet  sad  smile  she  wore 
All  wrong  to  shame,  all  souls  to  win,  — 

A  heavenly  sunbeam  sent  before 

Her  footsteps  through  a  world  of  sin. 

"  And  who  is  Avis  ?  "  —  Hear  the  tale 
The  calm-voiced  matrons  gravely  tell,  — 

The  story  known  through  all  the  vale 
Where  Avis  and  her  sisters  dwell. 


THE  LIVING  TEMPER  /  •  ; 


With  the  lost  children  running  wild, 
Strayed  from  the  hand  of  human  care, 

They  find  one  little  refuse  child 
Left  helpless  in  its  poisoned  lair. 

The  primal  mark  is  on  her  face,  — 
The  chattel-stamp,  —  the  pariah-stain 

That  follows  still  her  hunted  race,  — 
The  curse  without  the  crime  of  Cain. 

How  shall  our  smooth-turned  phrase  relate 
The  little  suffering-  outcast's  ail  ? 

Not  Lazarus  at  the  rich  man's  gate 

So    turned   the    rose-wreathed   revellers 
pale. 

Ah,  veil  the  living'  death  from  sight 
That  wounds  our  beauty-loving  eye  ! 

The  children  turn  in  selfish  fright, 
The  white-lipped  nurses  hurry  by. 

Take  her,  dread  Angel  !     Break  in  love 
This  bruised  reed  and  make  it  thine  !  — 

Xo  voice  descended  from  above, 
But  Avis  answered,  "  She  is  mine." 

The  task  that  dainty  menials  spurn 
The  fair  young  girl  has  made  her  own ; 

Her  heart  shall  teach,  her  hand  shall  learn 
The  toils,  the  duties  yet  unknown. 

So  Love  and  Death  in  lingering  strife 
Stand  face  to  face  from  day  to  day, 

Still  battling-  for  the  spoil  of  Life 
While  the  slow  seasons  creep  away. 

Love  conquers  Death;  the  prize  is  won; 

See  to  her  joyous  bosom  pressed 
The  dusky  daughter  of  the  sun,  — 

The  bronze  against  the  marble  breast  ! 

Her  task  is  done  ;  no  voice  divine 

Has  crowned  her  deeds  with  saintly  fame. 

Xo  eye  can  see  the  aureole  shine 

That  rings  her  brow  with  heavenly  flame. 

Yet  what  has  holy  page  more  sweet, 
Or  what  had  woman's  love  more  fair, 

When  Mary  clasped  her  Saviour's  feet 
With  flowing  eyes  and  streaming  hair  ? 

Meek  child  of  sorrow,  walk  unknown, 

The  Angel  of  that  earthly  throng, 
And  let  thine  image  live  alone 


To  hallow  this  unstudied 


song 


THE    LIVING  TEMPLE 

[The  Professor,  who  is  credited  with  this 
verse,  was  supposed  to  call  it  Tin'  Anatomist's 
Hymn.] 

XOT  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 

Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne. 

Xor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 

With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 

And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 

Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen: 

Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame,  — 

Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same  ! 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden  caves, 
Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush, 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 
And  red  with  Xat lire's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

Xo  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask, 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task, 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides, 
Then,  kindling  each  decaying  part. 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 
And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 

Is  braided  out  of  seven-lined  light, 

Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 

By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 

Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound, 

Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 

Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine  ear 

With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds; 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill, 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will; 
Think  on  the  stormv  world  that  dwells 


*:;  VSQNGS   IN   MANY   KEYS 


Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells  ! 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads  ! 

O  Father  !  grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine  ! 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
When  darkness  gathers  over  all, 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall, 
Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms, 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms  ! 


AT    A   BIRTHDAY   FESTIVAL 

TO   J.    R.   LOWELL 
FEBRUARY  22,  1859 

WE  will  not  speak  of  years  to-night,  — 
For  what  have  years  to  bring 

But  larger  floods  of  love  and  light, 
And  sweeter  songs  to  sing  ? 

We  will  not  drown  in  wordy  praise 
The  kindly  thoughts  that  rise; 

If  Friendship  own  one  tender  phrase, 
He  reads  it  in  our  eyes. 

We  need  not  waste  our  school-boy  art 
To  gild  this  notch  of  Time ;  — 

Forgive  me  if  my  wayward  heart 
Has  throbbed  in  artless  rhyme. 

Enough  for  him  the  silent  grasp 
That  knits  us  hand  in  hand, 

And  he  the  bracelet's  radiant  clasp 
That  locks  our  circling  band. 

Strength  to  his  hours  of  manly  toil ! 

Peace  to  his  starlit  dreams  ! 
Who  loves  alike  the  furrowed  soil, 

The  music-haunted  streams  ! 

Sweet  smiles  to  keep  forever  bright 

The  sunshine  on  his  lips, 
And  faith  that  sees  the  ring  of  light 

Round  nature's  last  eclipse  ! 

A   BIRTHDAY   TRIBUTE 

TO  J.  F.  CLARKE.      APRIL  4,   l86o 

WHO  is  the  shepherd  sent  to  lead, 
Through  pastures  green,   the   Master's 
sheep  ? 


What  guileless  "  Israelite  indeed  " 

The  folded  flock  may  watch  and  keep  ? 

He  who  with  manliest  spirit  joins 
The  heart  of  gentlest  human  mould, 

With  burning  light  and  girded  loins, 
To  guide  the  flock,  or  watch  the  fold; 

True  to  all  Truth  the  world  denies, 
Not  tongue-tied  for  its  gilded  sin; 

Not  always  right  in  all  men's  eyes, 
But  faithful  to  the  light  within; 

Who  asks  no  meed  of  earthly  fame, 
Who  knows  no  earthly  master's  call, 

Who   hopes   for   man,  through   guilt   and 

shame, 
Still  answering,  "  God  is  over  all;  " 

Who  makes  another's  grief  his  own, 
Whose  smile  lends  joy  a  double  cheer; 

Where  lives  the  saint,  if  such  be  known  ? — 
Speak  softly,  —  such  an  one  is  here  ! 

O  faithful  shepherd  !  thou  hast  borne 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day; 

Yet,    o'er    thee,   bright   with    beams    un 
shorn, 
The  sun  still  shows  thine  onward  way. 

To  thee  our  fragrant  love  we  bring, 
In  buds  that  April  half  displays, 

Sweet  first-born  angels  of  the  spring, 
Caught  in  their  opening  hymn  of  praise. 

What  though  our  faltering  accents  fail, 
Our  captives  know  their  message  well, 

Our  words  unbreathecl  their  lips  exhale, 
And  sigh  more  love  than  ours  can  tell. 


THE   GRAY   CHIEF 

FOR    THE     MEETING    OF    THE   MASSACHU 
SETTS    MEDICAL     SOCIETY,     1859 

[In  honor  of  Dr.  Jacob  Bigelow.] 

'T  is  sweet  to  fight  our  battles  o'er, 
And  crown  with  honest  praise 

The  gray  old  chief,  who  strikes  no  more 
The  blow  of  better  days. 

Before  the  true  and  trusted  sage 
With  willing  hearts  we  bend, 


IX    MEMORY   OF   CHARLES    WENTWORTH    UPHAM,   JR.     103 


When  years  have  touched  with  hallowing  age 
Our  Master,  Guide,  and  Friend. 

For  all  his  manhood's  labor  past, 

For  love  and  faith  long  tried, 
His  age  is  honored  to  the  last, 

Though  strength  and  will  have  died. 

But  when,  untamed  by  toil  and  strife, 

Full  in  our  front  he  stands, 
The  torch  of  light,  the  shield  of  life, 

Still  lifted  in  his  hands, 

Xo  temple,  though  its  walls  resound 
With  bursts  of  ringing  cheers, 

Can  hold  the  honors  that  surround 
His  manhood's  twice-told  years  ! 


THE    LAST    LOOK 

W.    W.  SWAIN 

[Written  at  Xaushon.  September  ±>,  ISoS. 
W.  W.  Swain  was  an  only  son  of  Governor 
Swain,  mentioned  before,  p.  S1,),  and  lies  by  the 
side  of  his  father  and  mother  in  the  island 
grave.] 

BEHOLD  — not  him  we  knew  ! 
This  was  the  prison  which  his  soul    looked 

through, 
Tender,  and  brave,  and  true. 

His  voice  no  more  is  heard; 
And  his  dead  name  —  that  dear    familiar 

word  — 
Lies  on  our  lips  unstirred. 

He  spake  with  poet's  tongue; 
Living,  for  him    the    minstrel's    lyre    was 

strung  : 
He  shall  not  die  unsung  ! 

Grief  tried  his  love,  and  pain; 
And  the  long  bondage  of  his  martyr-chain 
Vexed  his  sweet  soul,  —  in  vain  ! 

It  felt  life's  surges  break, 
As,  girt  with  stormy  seas,  his  island  lake, 
Smiling  while  tempests  wake. 

How  can  we  sorrow  more  ? 
Grieve  not  for  him  whose  heart  had  gone 

before 
To  that  untrodden  shore  ! 


Lo,  through  its  leafy  screen, 
I   A  gleam  of  sunlight  on  a  ring  of  green, 
Untrodden,  half  unseen  ! 

Here  let  his  body  rest, 
Where    the   calm   shadows   that   his    soul 

loved  best 
May  slide  above  his  breast. 

Smooth  his  uncurtained  bed; 
And  if  some  natural  tears  are  softly  shed, 
It  is  not  for  the  dead. 

Fold  the  green  turf  aright 
For  the  long  hours  before  the   morning's 

light, 
And  say  the  last  Good  Xight ! 

And  plant  a  clear  white  stone 
Close    by    those    mounds    which    hold    his 

loved,  his  own,  — 
Lonely,  but  not  alone. 

Here  let  him  sleeping  lie, 
Till  Heaven's  bright  watchers  slumber  in 

the  sky 
And  Death  himself  shall  die  ! 


IN      MEMORY      OF      CHARLES 
WENTWORTH    UPHAM.    JR. 


HE  was  all  sunshine;  in  his  face 
The  very  soul  of  sweetness  shone; 

Fairest  and  gentlest  of  his  race; 

Xone  like  him  we  can  call  our  own. 

Something  there  was  of  one  that  died 
In  her  fresh  spring-time  long  ago, 

Our  first  dear  Mary,  angel-eyed, 
Whose  smile  it  was  a  bliss  to  know. 

j   Something  of  her  whose  love  imparts 
Such  radiance  to  her  day's  decline, 
We  feel  its  twilight  in  our  hearts 
Bright  as  the  earliest  morning-shine. 

Yet  richer  strains  our  eye  could  trace 
That    made    our    plainer    mould    more 
fair, 

That  curved  the  lip  witli  happier  grace, 
That  waved  tiie  soft  and  silken  hair. 


104 


SONGS   IN    MANY   KEYS 


Dust  unto  dust  !  the  lips  are  still 
That  only  spoke  to  cheer  and  bless; 

The  folded  hands  lie  white  and  chill 
Unclasped  from  sorrow's  last  caress. 

Leave  him  in  peace  ;  he  will  not  heed 
These  idle  tears  we  vainly  pour, 

Give  back  to  earth  the  fading  weed 
Of  mortal  shape  his  spirit  wore. 

"  Shall  I  not  weep  my  heartstrings  torn, 
My  flower  of  love  that  falls  half  blown, 

My  youth  uncrowned,  my  life  forlorn, 
A  thorny  path  to  walk  alone  ?  " 

O  Mary  !  one  who  bore  thy  name, 

Whose  Friend  and  Master  was  divine, 

Sat  waiting  silent  till  He  came, 

Bowed  down    in   speechless   grief    like 
thine. 

"  Where  have   ye  laid  him  ?  "     "  Come," 
they  say, 

Pointing  to  where  the  loved  one  slept; 
Weeping,  the  sister  led  the  way,  — 

And,  seeing  Mary,  "  Jesus  wept." 

He  weeps  with  thee,  with  all  that  mourn, 
And  He  shall  wipe  thy  streaming  eyes 

Who  knew  all  sorrows,  woman-born,  — 
Trust  in  his  word  ;  thy  dead  shall  rise  ! 

MARTHA 

DIED   JANUARY    7,    l86l 

[Written  on  the  death  of  an  old  family  ser 
vant.] 

SEXTON  !  Martha 's  dead  and  gone ; 

Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
Her  weary  hands  their  labor  cease ; 
Good     night,     poor     Martha,  —  sleep     in 
peace  ! 

Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !  Martha  's  dead  and  gone; 

Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
For  many  a  year  has  Martha  said, 
"I'm    old    and     poor,  —  would    I    were 
dead  ! " 

Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !  Martha  's  dead  and  gone; 
Toll  the  bell  !  toll  the  bell  ! 


She  '11  bring  no  more,  by  day  or  night, 
Her  basket  full  of  linen  white. 
Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !  Martha's  dead  and  gone; 

Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell  ! 
'T  is  fitting  she  should  lie  below 
A  pure  white  sheet  of  drifted  snow. 
Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !  Martha  's  dead  and  gone; 

Toll  the  bell  !  toll  the  bell  ! 
Sleep,  Martha,  sleep,  to  wake  in  light, 
Where  all  the  robes  are  stainless  white. 
Toll  the  bell  ! 


MEETING   OF   THE   ALUMNI    OF 
HARVARD    COLLEGE 

1857 

I    THANK   you,   MR.   PRESIDENT,   you've 

kindly  broke  the  ice; 
Virtue  should  always  be  the  first,  —  I  'm 

only  SECOND  VICE  — 
(A  vice  is  something  with  a  screw  that 's 

made  to  hold  its  jaw 
Till  some  old  file  has  played  away  upon  an 

ancient  saw). 

Sweet  brothers  by  the  Mother's  side,  the 
babes  of  days  gone  by, 

All  nurslings  of  her  Juno  breasts  whose 
milk  is  never  dry, 

We  come  again,  like  half-grown  boys,  and 
gather  at  her  beck 

About  her  knees,  and  on  her  lap,  and  cling 
ing  round  her  neck. 

We  find  her  at  her  stately  door,  and  in  her 

ancient  chair, 
Dressed  in  the  robes  of  red  and  green  she 

always  loved  to  wear. 
Her  eye  has  all  its  radiant  youth,  her  cheek 

its  morning  flame; 
We  drop  our  roses  as  we   go,  hers  flourish 

still  the  same. 

We  have  been  playing  many  an  hour,  and 

far  away  we  've  strayed, 
Some  laughing  in  the  cheerful  sun,  some 

lingering  in  the  shade ; 


MEETING    OF   THE    ALUMNI    OF    HARVARD    COLLEGE 


And  some  have  tired,  and  laid  them  down 
where  darker  shadows  fall,  — 

Dear  as  her  loving  voice  may  be,  they  can 
not  hear  its  call. 

What  miles  we  've  travelled  since  we  shook 

the  dew-drops  from  our  shoes 
We  gathered  on  this  classic  green,  so  famed 

for  heavy  dues  ! 
How  many  boys  have  joined  the  game,  how 

many  slipped  away, 
Since  we  've   been   running  up  and   down, 

and  having  out  our  play  ! 

One  boy  at  work  with  book  and  brief,  and 
one  with  gown  and  band, 

One  sailing  vessels  on  the  pool,  one  digging 
in  the  sand, 

One  flying  paper  kites  on  change,  one  plant 
ing  little  pills,  — 

The  seeds  of  certain  annual  flowers  well 
known  as  little  bills. 

What    maidens    met    us    on    our  way,  and 

clasped  us  hand  in  hand  ! 
What  cherubs,  —  not  the  legless  kind,  that 

fly,  but  never  stand  ! 
How  many  a  youthful  head  we  've  seen  put 

on  its  silver  crown  ! 
What  sudden  changes  back  again  to  youth's 

empurpled  brown  ! 

But  fairer  sights  have  met  our  eyes,  and 

broader  lights  have  shone, 
Since  others  lit  their  midnight  lamps  where 

once  we  trimmed  our  own 
A  thousand  trains  that  flap  the   sky   with 

flags  of  rushing  fire, 
And,  throbbing   in  the  Thunderer's  hand, 

Thought's  million-chorded  lyre. 

We  've  seen  the  sparks  of  Empire  fly  be 
yond  the  mountain  bars, 

Till,  glittering  o'er  the  Western  wave,  they 
joined  the  setting  stars; 

And  ocean  trodden  into  paths  that  tram 
pling  giants  ford, 

To  find  the  planet's  vertebra;  and  sink  its 
spinal  cord. 

We  've  tried  reform,  —  and  chloroform,  — 
and  both  have  turned  our  brain ; 

When  France  called  up  the  photograph,  we 
roused  the  foe  to  pain ; 


Just  so  those  earlier  sages  shared  the  chap- 
let  of  renown,  — 

Hers  sent  a  bladder  to  the  clouds,  ours 
brought  their  lightning  down. 

We  've  seen  the  little  tricks  of  life,  its  var 
nish  and  veneer, 

Its  stucco-fronts  of  character  flake  off  and 
disappear, 

We  've  learned  that  oft  the  brownest  hands 
will  heap  the  biggest  pile, 

And  met  with  many  a  "  perfect  brick  "  be 
neath  a  rimless  '•  tile." 

What  dreams  we  've  had  of  deathless  name, 

as  scholars,  statesmen,  bards, 
While  Fame,  the  lady  with  the  trump,  held 

up  her  picture  cards  ! 
Till,  having  nearly  played   our  game,   she 

gayly  whispered,  "  Ah  ! 
I  said  you   should  be  something  grand,  — 

you  '11  soon  be  grandpapa." 

Well,  well,  the  old  have  had  their  day,  the 
young  must  take  their  turn; 

There 's  something  always  to  forget,  and 
something  still  to  learn; 

But  how  to  tell  what  's  old  or  young,  the 
tap-root  from  the  sprigs, 

Since  Florida  revealed  her  fount  to  Ponce 


de  Leon  Twiggs  ? 


The   wisest    was    a    Freshman    once,    just 

freed  from  bar  and  bolt, 
As  noisy  as  a  kettle-drum,  as   leggy  as  a 

colt; 
Don't  be  too  savage  with  the   boys,  —  the 

Primer  does  not  say 
The  kitten   ought  to  go  to  church  because 

the  cat  doth  prey. 

The  law  of  merit  and  of  age  is  not  the  rule 

of  three; 
iYo/i  conslat  that  A.  M.  must  prove  as  busy 

as  A.  B. 
When  Wise  the   father  tracked   the    son, 

ballooning  through  the  skies, 
lie   taught  a  lesson   to  the  old,  —  go  thou 

and  do  like  Wise  ! 

Xow  then,  old  boys,  and  reverend  youth,  of 

high  or  low  degree, 
Remember  how  we  only  get  one  annual  out 

of  three, 


io6 


SONGS   IN   MANY   KEYS 


And  such  as  dare  to  simmer  down  three 

dinners  into  one 
Must   cut  their   salads  mighty  short,  and 

pepper  well  with  fun. 

I've  passed  my  zenith  long  ago,  it's  time 
for  me  to  set; 

A  dozen  planets  wait  to  shine,  and  I  am 
lingering  yet, 

As  sometimes  in  the  blaze  of  day  a  milk- 
and-watery  moon 

Stains  with  its  dim  and  fading  ray  the  lus 
trous  blue  of  noon. 

Farewell  !  yet  let  one  echo  rise  to  shake  our 

ancient  hall; 
God   save   the    Queen,  —  whose   throne   is 

here,  —  the  Mother  of  us  all  ! 
Till  dawns  the  great  commencement-day  on 

every  shore  and  sea, 
And  "  Expectantur  "  all  mankind,  to  take 

their  last  Degree  ! 

THE    PARTING   SONG 

FESTIVAL   OF   THE   ALUMNI,    1857 

THE  noon  of  summer  sheds  its  ray 
On  Harvard's  holy  ground  ; 

The  Matron  calls,  the  sons  obey, 
And  gather  smiling  round. 

CHORUS 

Then  old  and  young  together  stand, 

The  sunshine  and  the  snow, 
As  heart  to  heart,  and  hand  in  hand, 

We  sing  before  we  go  ! 

Her  hundred  opening  doors  have  swung; 

Through  every  storied  hall 
The  pealing  echoes  loud  have  rung, 

"Thrice  welcome  one  and  all !  " 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

We  floated  through  her  peaceful  bay, 

To  sail  life's  stormy  seas; 
But  left  our  anchor  where  it  lay 

Beneath  her  green  old  trees. 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

As  now  we  lift  its  lengthening  chain, 

That  held  us  fast  of  old, 
The  rusted  rings  grow  bright  again.  — 

Their  iron  turns  to  gold. 

Then  old  and  young,  etc. 


Though  scattered  ere  the  setting  sun, 
As  leaves  when  wild  wrinds  blow, 

Our  home  is  here,  our  hearts  are  one, 
Till  Charles  forgets  to  flow. 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 


FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  NA 
TIONAL  SANITARY  ASSOCIA 
TION 

1860 

WHAT  makes  the  Healing  Art  divine  ? 

The  bitter  drug  we  buy  and  sell, 
The   brands   that   scorch,  the   blades  that 

shine, 

The  scars  we    leave,    the    "  cures "  we 
tell? 

Are  these  thy  glories,  holiest  Art,  — 
The  trophies  that  adorn  thee  best,  — 

Or  but  thy  triumph's  meanest  part,  — 
Where    mortal    weakness    stands    con 
fessed  ? 

We  take  the  arms  that  Heaven  supplies 
For  Life's  long  battle  with  Disease, 

Taught  by  our  various  need  to  prize 
Our  frailest  weapons,  even  these. 

But  ah  !  when  Science  drops  her  shield  — 
Its  peaceful  shelter  proved  in  vain  — 

And  bares  her  snow-white  arm  to  wield 
The  sad,  stern  ministry  of  pain; 

When  shuddering  o'er  the  fount  of  life, 
She  folds  her  heaven-anointed  wings, 

To  lift  unmoved  the  glittering  knife 
That  searches  all  its  crimson  springs; 

When,  faithful  to  her  ancient  lore, 
She  thrusts  aside  her  fragrant  balm 

For  blistering  juice,  or  cankering  ore, 
And  tames  them  till  they  cure  or  calm; 

When  in  her  gracious  hand  are  seen 
The  dregs  and  scum  of  earth  and  seas, 

Her  kindness  counting  all  things  clean 
That  lend  the  sighing  sufferer  ease; 

Though  on  the  field  that  Death  has  won, 
She  save  some  stragglers  in  retreat;  — 

These  single  acts  of  mercy  done 
Are  but  confessions  of  defeat. 


FOR  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION 


107 


What  though  our  tempered  poisons  save 
Some  wrecks  of  life  from  aches  and  ails; 


Those  grand  specifics  Nature  gave 
Were  never  poised  by  weights  or 


scales  ! 


God  lent  his  creatures  light  and  air, 
And  waters  open  to  the  skies; 

Man  locks  him  in  a  stifling  lair, 

And  wonders  why  his  brother  dies  ! 

In  vain  our  pitying  tears  are  shed, 
In  vain  we  rear  the  sheltering  pile 

Where  Art  weeds  out  from  bed  to  bed 
The  plagues  we  planted  by  the  mile  ! 

Be  that  the  glory  of  the  past; 

With  these  our  sacred  toils  begin: 
So  flies  in  tatters  from  its  mast 

The  yellow  Hag  of  sloth  and  sin, 

And  lo  !  the  starry  folds  reveal 

The  blazoned  truth  we  hold  so  dear: 

To  guard  is  better  than  to  heal,  — 
The  shield  is  nobler  than  the  spear  ! 


FOR  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL 
CELEBRATION 

JANUARY    25,    1859 

[In  a  passage  at  the  close  of  Mechanism  in 
Thought  and  Morals,  Dr.  Holmes  applies  the 
ninth,  tenth  and  twelfth  stanzas  of  this  poem 
to  Dickens.] 

Ills  birthday.  —  Nay,  we  need  not  speak 
The  name  each  heart  is  beating',  — 

Each  glistening  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
In  light  and  flame  repeating  ! 

We  come  in  one  tumultuous  tide,  — 

One  surge  of  wild  emotion,  — 
As  crowding  through  the  Frith  of  Clyde 

Rolls  in  the  Western  Ocean  ; 

As  when  yon  cloudless,  quartered  moon 

Hangs  o'er  each  storied  river, 
The  swelling  breasts  of  Ayr  and  Doon 

With  sea-green  wavelets  quiver. 

The  century  shrivels  like  a  scroll,  — 
The  past  becomes  the  present,  — 


And  face  to  face,  and  soul  to  soid, 
We  greet  the  monarch-peasant. 

While  Shenstone  strained  in  feeble  flights 

With  Cory  don  and  Fhillis,  — 
While    Wolfe    was     climbing     Abraham's 
heights 

To  snatch  the  Bourbon  lilies,  — 

Who  heard  the  wailing  infant's  cry, 
The  babe  beneath  the  sheeling, 

Whose  song  to-night  in  every  sky 
Will  shake  earth's  starry  ceiling,  — 

Whose  passion-breathing  voice  ascends 
And  floats  like  incense  o'er  us, 

Whose  ringing  lay  of  friendship  blends 
With  labor's  anvil  chorus  ? 

We  love  him,  not  for  sweetest  song, 

Though  never  tone  so  tender; 
We  love  him,  even  in  his  wrong,  — 

His  wasteful  self-surrender. 

We  praise  him,  not  for  gifts  divine,  — 
His  Musi'  was  born  of  woman,  — 

His  manhood  breathes  in  every  line,  — 
Was  ever  heart  more  human  ? 

We  love  him,  praise  him,  just  for  this  : 

In  every  form  and  feature, 
Through  wealth    and    want,   through    woe 
and  bliss, 

He  saw  his  fellow-creature  ! 

No  soul  could  sink  beneath  his  love,  — 

Not  even  angel  blasted ; 
No  mortal  power  could  soar  above 

The  pride  that  all  outlasted  ! 

Ay  !  Heaven  had  set  one  living  man 
Beyond  the  pedant's  tether,  — 

His  virtues,  frailties,  II K  may  scan, 
Who  weighs  them  all  together  ! 

I  fling  my  pebble  on  the  cairn 
Of  him,  though  dead,  undying; 

Sweet  Nature's  nursling,  bonniest  bairn 
Beneath  her  daisies  lying. 

The  waning  suns,  the  wasting  globe, 
Shall  spare  the  minstrel's  story,  — 

The  centuries  weave  his  purple  robe, 
The  mountain-mist  of  glory  ! 


io8 


SONGS   IN    MANY    KEYS 


AT   A   MEETING    OF    FRIENDS 

AUGUST   29,    1859 

[The  occasion  was  the  fiftieth  birthday  of 
Dr.  Holmes.] 

I  REMEMBER  —  why,  yes  !  God  bless  me  ! 

and  was  it  so  long  ago  ? 
I  fear  I  'm  growing  forgetful,  as  old  folks 

do,  you  know; 
It  must  have  been  in  'forty  —  I  would  say 

3  thirty -nine  — 
We  talked  this  matter  over,  I  and  a  friend 

of  mine. 

He    said,    "Well    now,   old    fellow,   I'm 

thinking  that  you  and  I, 
If  we  act  like  other  people,  shall  be  older 

by  and  by ; 
What    though    the    bright   blue   ocean   is 

smooth  as  a  pond  can  be, 
There  is  always  a  line  of  breakers  to  fringe 

the  broadest  sea. 

"  We  're  taking  it  mighty  easy,  but  that  is 

nothing  strange, 
For  up  to  the  age  of  thirty  we  spend  our 

years  like  change; 
But   creeping  up   towards   the  forties,  as 

fast  as  the  old  years  fill, 
And  Time  steps  in  for  payment,  we  seem 

to  change  a  bill." 

"  I  know   it,"   I    said,  "  old   fellow  ;   you 

speak  the  solemn  truth; 
A  man  can't  live  to  a  hundred  and  likewise 

keep  his  youth; 
But  what   if   the  ten  years  coming  shall 

silver-streak  my  hair, 
You  know  I  shall  then  be  forty;  of  course 

I  shall  not  care. 

"  At  forty  a  man  grows  heavy  and  tired  of 

fun  and  noise ; 
Leaves  dress  to  the  five-and-tweuties  and 

love  to  the  silly  boys; 
No  foppish  tricks  at  forty,  no  pinching  of 

waists  and  toes, 
But  high-low  shoes  and  flannels  and  good 

thick  worsted  hose." 


But  one  fine  August  morning  I  found  my 
self  awake : 

My  birthday:  —  By  Jove,  I  'm  forty  !  Yes, 
forty  and  no  mistake  ! 

Why,  this  is  the  very  milestone,  I  think  I 
used  to  hold, 

That  when  a  fellow  had  come  to,  a  fellow 
would  then  be  old  ! 

But   that   is   the   young    folks'   nonsense; 

they  're  full  of  their  foolish  stuff; 
A  man 's  in  his  prime  at  forty,  —  I  see  that 

plain  enough; 
At  fifty  a  man  is  wrinkled,  and  may  be  bald 

or  gray; 
I  call  men  old  at  fifty,  in  spite  of  all  they 

say. 

At  last  comes  another  August  with  mist 
and  rain  and  shine; 

Its  mornings  are  slowly  counted  and  creep 
to  twenty-nine, 

And  when  on  the  western  summits  the  fad 
ing  light  appears, 

It  touches  with  rosy  fingers  the  last  of  my 
fifty  years. 

There  have  been   both    men  and    women 

whose  hearts  were  firm  and  bold, 
But  there  never  was  one  of  fifty  that  loved 

to  say  "I'm  old;" 
So  any  elderly  person  that  strives  to  shirk 

his  years, 
Make  him  stand  up  at  a  table  and  try  him 

by  his  peers. 

Now  here  I  stand  at  fifty,  my  jury  gathered 

round ; 
Sprinkled  with  dust  of  silver,  but  not  yet 

silver-crowned, 
Ready  to   meet   your  verdict,  waiting   to 

hear  it  told;- 
Guilty  of  fifty   summers;    speak  !    Is   the 

verdict  old? 

No  !   say  that  his  hearing  fails  him;   say 

that  his  sight  grows  dim; 
Say  that  he  's  getting  wrinkled  and  weak  in 

back  and  limb, 
Losing  his  wits  and  temper,  but  pleading, 

to  make  amends, 
The  youth  of  his  fifty  summers  he  finds  in 

his  twenty  friends. 


THE   OLD    MAN    OF    THE    SEA 


109 


BOSTON    COMMON;  THREE  PIC 
TURES 

FOR  THE  FAIR  IX  AID  OF  THE  FUND  TO 
PROCURE  BALL'S  STATUE  OF  WASH 
INGTON 

NOVEMBER    14,    1859 
1630 

ALL  overgrown  with  bush  anil  fern, 

And  straggling-  clumps  of  tangled  trees, 
With  trunks  that  lean  and  boughs  that  turn. 

Bent      eastward       by      the      mastering 

breeze, — 
With  spongy  bogs  that  drip  and  iill 

A  yellow  pond  with  muddy  rain, 
Beneath  the  shaggy  southern  hill 

Lies  wet  and  low  the  Shawmut  plain. 
And  hark  !  the  trodden  branches  crack ; 

A  cro\v  flaps  off  with  startled  scream; 
A  straying  woodchuck  canters  back; 

A  bittern  rises  from  the  stream; 
Leaps  from  his  lair  a  frightened  deer; 

An  otter  plunges  in  the  pool ;  — 
Here  comes  old  Shawmut's  pioneer, 

The  parson  on  his  brindled  bull  ! 

1/74 

The  streets  are  thronged   with  trampling 
feet, 

The  northern  hill  is  ridged  with  graves, 
But  night  and  morn  the  drum  is  beat 

To  frighten  down  the  ';  rebel  knaves." 
The  stones  of  King  Street  still  are  red, 

And  yet  the  bloody  red-coats  come: 
I  hear  their  pacing  sentry's  tread. 

The  click  of  steel,  the  tap  of  drum 
And  over  all  the  open  green, 

Where  grazed  of  late  the  harmless  kine, 
The  cannon's  deepening  ruts  are  seen, 

The     war-horse     stamps,    the     bayonets 

shine. 
The  clouds  are  dark  with  crimson  rain 

Above  the  murderous  hirelings'  den, 
And   soon  their    whistling     showers    shall 
stain 

The  pipe-clayed  belts  of  Gage's  men. 

1 86- 

Around  the  green,  in  morning  light, 
The  spired  and  palaced  summits  blaze, 

And,  sunlike,  from  her  Beacon-height 
The  dome-crowned  city  spreads  her  rays ; 


They  span  the  waves,  they  belt  the  plains. 

They  skirt  the  roads  with  bands  of  white, 
Till  with  a  Hash  of  gilded  panes 

Yon  farthest  hillside  bounds  the  sight. 
Peace,  Freedom,  Wealth  !  no  fairer  view, 

Though    with    the    wild -bird's    restless 

wings 
We  sailed  beneath  the  noontide's  blue 

Or  chased  the  moonlight's  endless  rings  ! 
Here,  fitly  raised  by  grateful  hands 

His  holiest  memory  to  recall, 
The  Hero's,  Patriot's  image  stands; 

He  led  our  sires  who  won  them  all  ! 


T  H  K  O  L  L)  M  A  N  O  F  Till  -:  S  E  A 

A     NIGHTMARE     DREAM     BY     DAYLIGHT 

Do  vou  know  the  Old  Man  of  the   Sea,  of 

the  Sea  ? 
Have  vou    met  with  that    dreadful    old 


If  you  have  n't   been    caught,  you  will    be, 

you  will  be ; 
For  catch  you  he  must  and  he  can. 

He  does  n't  hold  on  by  your  throat,  by  your 

throat, 

As  of  old  in  the  terrible  tale; 
But  he  grapples  you  tight   by  the   coat,  by 

the  coat, 
Till  its  buttons  and  button-holes  fail. 

There  's  the  charm  of  a  snake  in  his  eye,  in 

his  eye, 

And  a  polypus-grip  in  his  hands; 
You   cannot  go  back,  nor  get  by,  nor  get 

by, 
If  you  look  at  the  spot  where  he  stands. 

Oh,  yon  're  grabbed  !     See  his  claw  on  your 

sleeve,  on  your  sleeve  ! 
It  is  Sindbad's'Old  Man  of  the  Sea  ! 
You're  a  Christian,  no  doubt  you  believe, 

you  believe  : 
You  're  a  martyr,  whatever  you  be  ! 

Is  the  breakfast-hour  past  ?     They    must 

wait,  they  must  wait, 
While  the  coffee  boils  sullenly  down. 
While  the  Johnny-cake  burns  on  the  grate, 

on  the  grate, 
And  the  toast  is  done  frightfully  brown. 


no 


SONGS    IN   MANY   KEYS 


Yes,  your  dinner  will  keep;  let  it  cool,  let 

it  cool, 

And  Madam  may  worry  and  fret, 
And  children  half-starved  go  to  school,  go 

to  school; 
He  can't  think  of  sparing  you  yet. 

Hark!  the   bell   for   the    train!     "Come 

along  !     Come  along  ! 
For  there  is  n't  a  second  to  lose." 
"  ALL  ABOARD  ! "     (He  holds  on.)  "  Fsht  ! 

diug-dong  !  Fsht !  ding-dong  !  "  — 
You  can  follow  on  foot,  if  you  choose. 

There  's  a  maid  with  a  cheek  like  a  peach, 

like  a  peach, 

That  is  waiting  for  you  in  the  church ;  — 
But  he  clings  to  your  side  like  a  leech,  like 

a  leech, 

And   you  leave  your  lost  bride   in  the 
lurch. 

There  's  a  babe  in  a   fit,  —  hurry  quick  ! 

hurry  quick  ! 

To  the  doctor's  as  fast  as  you  can  ! 
The  baby  is  off,  while  you  stick,  while  you 

stick, 
In  the  grip  of  the  dreadful  Old  Man  ! 

I  have  looked  on  the  face  of  the  Bore,  of 

the  Bore  ; 

The  voice  of  the  Simple  I  know; 
I  have  welcomed  the  Flat  at  my  door,  at 

my  door  ; 
I  have  sat  by  the  side  of  the  Slow; 

I  have  walked  like  a  lamb  by  the  friend,  by 

the  friend, 

That  stuck  to  my  skirts  like  a  bur; 
I  have  borne  the  stale  talk  without  end, 

without  end, 
Of  the  sitter  whom  nothing  could  stir: 

But  my  hamstrings  grow  loose,  and  I  shake, 

and  I  shake, 

At  the  sight  of  the  dreadful  Old  Man; 
Yea,  I  quiver  and  quake,  and  I  take,  and  I 

take, 
To  my  legs  with  what  vigor  I  can  ! 

Oh  the  dreadful  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  of  the 

Sea! 

He 's   come    back    like    the  Wandering 
Jew  ! 


He  has  had  his  cold  claw  upon   me,  upon 

me,  — 
And  be  sure  that  he  '11  have  it  on  you  ! 


INTERNATIONAL  ODE 
OUR  FATHERS'  LAND 

This  ode  was  sung  in  unison  by  twelve  hun 
dred  children  of  the  public  schools  to  the  air 
of  "  God  save  the  Queen  "  at  the  visit  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales  to  Boston,  October  18,  1860- 

GOD  bless  our  Fathers'  Land  ! 
Keep  her  in  heart  and  hand 

One  with  our  own  ! 
From  all  her  foes  defend, 
Be  her  brave  People's  Friend, 
On  all  her  realms  descend, 

Protect  her  Throne  ! 

Father,  with  loving  care 

Guard  Thou  her  kingdom's  Heir, 

Guide  all  his  ways: 
Thine  arm  his  shelter  be, 
From  him  by  land  and  sea 
Bid  storm  and  danger  flee, 

Prolong  his  days  ! 

Lord,  let  War's  tempest  cease, 
Fold  the  whole  Earth  in  peace 

Under  thy  wings  ! 
Make  all  thy  nations  one, 
All  hearts  beneath  the  sun, 
Till  Thou  shalt  reign  alone, 

Great  King  of  kings  ! 


VIVE    LA    FRANCE 

A  SENTIMENT  OFFERED  AT  THE  DINNER 
TO  H.  I.  H.  THE  PRINCE  NAPOLEON, 
AT  THE  REVERE  HOUSE,  SEPTEMBER 

25,  1861 

THE  land  of  sunshine  and  of  song  ! 

Her  name  your  hearts  divine; 
To  her  the  banquet's  vows  belong 

Whose  breasts  have  poured  its  wine; 
Our  trusty  friend,  our  true  ally 

Through  varied  change  and  chance: 
So,  fill  your  flashing  goblets  high,  — 

I  give  you,  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT 


in 


Above  our  hosts  in  triple  folds 

The  selfsame  colors  spread, 
Where  Valor's  faithful  arm  upholds 

The  blue,  the  white,  the  red; 
Alike  each  nation's  glittering-  crest 

Reflects  the  morning's  glance,  — 
Twin  eagles,  soaring  east  and  west: 

Once  more,  then,  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Sister  in  trial  !  who  shall  count 

Thy  generous  friendship's  claim, 
Whose  blood  ran  mingling  in  the  fount 

That  gave  our  land  its  name, 
Till  Yorktown  saw  in  blended  line 

Our  conquering  arms  advance, 
And  victory's  double  garlands  twine 

Our  banners  ?     VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

O  land  of  heroes  !  in  our  need 

One  gift  from  Heaven  we  crave 
To  stanch  these  wounds  that  vainly  bleed, 

The  wise  to  lead  the  brave  ! 
Call  back  one  Captain  of  thy  past 

From  glory's  marble  trance, 
Whose  name  shall  be  a  bugle-blast 

To  rouse  us  !     VIVK  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Pluck  Conde's  baton  from  the  trench, 

Wake  up  stout  Charles  Martel, 
Or  find  some  woman's  hand  to  clench 

The  sword  of  La  Pucelle  ! 
Give  us  one  hour  of  old  Turenne,  — 

One  lift  of  Bayard's  lance,  — 
Nay,  call  Marengo's  Chief  again 

To  lead  us  !     VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Ah,  hush  !  our  welcome  Guest  shall  hear 

But  sounds  of  peace  and  joy; 
No  angry  echo  vex  thine  ear, 

Fair  Daughter  of  Savoy  ! 
Once  more  !  the  land  of  arms  and  arts, 

Of  glory,  grace,  romance; 
Her  love  lies  warm  in  all  our  hearts: 

God  bless  her  !     VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT 
FOR    SISTER    CAROLINE 

MARCH    25,   1 86 1 

SHE  has  gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion 

and  pride,  — 
Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our 

side  ! 


She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  firma 
ment's  glow, 

And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a 
foe! 

Oh,  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
We  can  never  forget  that  our  hearts  have 

been  one,  — 
Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's 

name, 
From  the  fountain  of  blood  with  the  finger 

of  flame  ! 

You  were  always   too  ready  to   fire  at  a 

touch; 
But  we  said,  *'  She  is  hasty,  —  she  does  not 

mean  much." 
We  have  scowled,  when  3-011  uttered  some 

turbulent  threat; 
But  Friendship   still  whispered,  "Forgive 

and  forget  !  " 

Has  our  love  all  died  out  ?     Have  its  altars 

grown  cold  ? 
Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the  fathers 

foretold  ? 
Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength  of 

the  chain 
That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in 

vain. 

They  may  fight  till  the  buzzards  are  gorged 

with  their  spoil, 
Till  the   harvest   grows  black  as  it  rots  in 

the  soil, 
Till  the  wolves  and  the  catamounts  troop 

from  their  caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord  of 

the  waves: 

In  vain  is  the  strife  !    When  its  fury  is  past, 

Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel  at 
last, 

As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  moun 
tains  of  snow 

Roll  mingled  in  peace  through  the  valleys 
below. 

Our  L^nion  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky: 
Man  breaks  not  the  medal,  when  God  cuts 

the  die  ! 
Though     darkened    with    sulphur,    though 

cloven  with  steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  waters  will 

heal  ! 


I  12 


SONGS   IN    MANY   KEYS 


Oh,  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
There  are  battles  with  Fate  that  can  never 

be  won  ! 
The  star-flowering  banner  must  never  be 

furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  light  are  the  hope  of 

the  world  ! 


Go,  then,  our  rash  sister  !  afar  and  aloof, 
Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our 

roof; 
But  when  your  heart  aches  and  your  feet 

have  grown  sore, 
Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our 

door ! 


POEMS    OF   THE    CLASS    OF    '29 
1851-1889 


["  THE  class  of  1829  at  Harvard  College,  of 
which  I  am  a  member,  graduated,  according'  to 
the  triennial,  fifty-nine  in  number.  It  is  sixty 
years,  then,  since  that  time  ;  and  as  they  were, 
on  an  average,  about  twenty  years  old,  those 
who  survive  must  have  reached  fourscore  years. 
Of  the  fifty-nine  graduates  ten  only  are  living, 
or  were  at  the  last  accounts ;  one  in  six,  very 
nearly.  In  the  first  ten  years  after  gradua 
tion,  our  third  decade,  when  we  were  between 
twenty  and  thirty  years  old,  we  lost  three 
members,  —  about  one  in  twenty  ;  between  the 
ages  of  thirty  and  forty,  eight  died,  —  one  in 
seven  of  those  the  decade  began  with ;  from 

BILL   AND  JOE 

COME,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Will  steal  an  hour  from  da}*s  gone  by, 
The  shining  days  when  life  was  now, 
And  all  was  bright  with  morning  dew, 
The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 
When  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail 
Proud  as  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail, 
And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  luckless  mare; 
To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe  and  you  are  Bill. 

You  've  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize, 
And  grand  you  look  in  people's  eyes, 
With  H  O  N.  and  L  L.  D. 
In  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see,  — 
Your  fist,  old  fellow  !  off  they  go  !  — 
How  are  you,  Bill  ?     How  are  you,  Joe  ? 

You  've  worn  the  judge's  erminecl  robe ; 
You  've  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globe; 
You've  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain; 
You  've  made  the  dead  past  live  again: 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will, 
But  vou  and  I  are  Joe  and  Bill. 


forty  to  fifty,  only  two,  —  or  one  in  twenty- 
four  ;  from  fifty  to  sixty,  eight,  —  or  one  in 
six  ;  from  sixty  to  seventy,  fifteen,  —  or  two 
out  of  every  five  ;  from  seventy  to  eighty, 
twelve,  —  or  one  in  two.  The  greatly  increased 
mortality  which  began  with  our  seventh  de 
cade  went  on  steadily  increasing.  At  sixty  we 
come  '  within  range  of  the  rifle-pits,'  to  borrow 
an  expression  from  my  friend  Weir  Mitchell." 
Over  The  Teacups,  p.  28.  A  list  of  the  mem 
bers  of  the  class  is  given  in  the  Notes  at  the  end 
of  this  volume,  and  will  serve  to  identify  the 
initials  which  stand  at  the  head  of  one  and  an 
other  poem.] 

The  chaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say 
"  See  those  old  buffers,  bent  and  gray,  — 
They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens  ! 
Mad,   poor    old    boys !       That 's    what   it 

means,"  - 

And  shake  their  beads;  they  little  know 
The  throbbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe  !  — 

How  Bill  forgets  bis  hour  of  pride, 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  bis  side; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Finds  the  old  schoolmate  in  bis  eyes,  — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

All,  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame  ? 

A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame; 

A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust, 

That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust; 

A  few  swift  years,  and  who  can  show 

Which  dust  was  Bill  and  which  wras  Joe  ? 

The  weary  idol  takes  bis  stand, 
Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  band, 
While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go, — 
How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show  ! 
Till  all  at  once  bis  pulses  thrill;  — 
'T  is    poor    old    Joe's   "  God    bless    you, 
Bill !  » 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 
The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears; 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song 
For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long1, 
Just  whispering  of  the  world  below 
Where  this  was  Bill  and  that  was  Joe  ? 

No  matter;  while  our  home  is  here 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 
Who    cares    what     pompous     tombstones 

say? 

Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still, 
Hicjacet  Joe.     Hicjacet  Bill. 


A  SONG   OF   "TWENTY-NINE 
1851 

THE  summer  dawn  is  breaking 
On  Auburn's  tangled  bowers, 
The  golden  light  is  waking 
On  Harvard's  ancient  towers; 
The  sun  is  in  the  sky 
That  must  see  us  do  or  die, 
Ere  it  shine  on  the  line 
Of  the  CLASS  OF  '29. 

At  last  the  day  is  ended, 

The  tutor  screws  no  more, 
By  doubt  and  fear  attended 
Each  hovers  round  the  door, 
Till  the  good  old  Prseses  cries, 
While  the  tears  stand  in  his  eyes, 
"  You  have  passed,  and  are  classed 
With  the  BOYS 'OF '29." 

Not  long  are  they  in  making 

The  college  halls  their  own, 
Instead  of  standing  shaking, 
Too  bashful  to  be  known; 

But  they  kick  the  Seniors'  shins 
Ere  the  second  week  begins, 
When  they  stray  in  the  way 
Of  the  BOYS  OF  '29. 

If  a  jolly  set  is  trolling 

The  last  Der  Freischutz  airs, 
Or  a  "  cannon  bullet "  rolling 
Comes  bouncing  down  the  stairs, 
The  tutors,  looking  out, 
Sigh,  "  Alas  !  there  is  no  doubt, 


'T  is  the  noise  of  the  Boys 
Of  the  CLASS  OF  '29." 

Four  happy  years  together, 

By  storm  and  sunshine  tried, 
In  changing  wind  and  weather, 
They  rough  it  side  by  side, 

Till  they  hear  their  Mother  cry, 
"  You  are  fledged,  and  you  must  fly," 
And  the  bell  tolls  the  knell 
Of  the  days  of  '29. 

Since  then,  in  peace  or  trouble, 
Full  many  a  year  has  rolled, 
And  life  has  counted  double 
The  days  that  then  we  told; 
Yet  we  '11  end  as  we  've  begun, 
For  though  scattered,  we  are  one, 
While  each  year  sees  us  here, 
Round  the  board  of  '29. 

Though  fate  may  throw  between  us 

The  mountains  or  the  sea, 
No  time  shall  ever  wean  us, 
No  distance  set  us  free; 

But  around  the  yearly  board, 
When  the  flaming  pledge  is  poured, 
It  shall  claim  every  name 
On  the  roll  of  '29. 

To  yonder  peaceful  ocean 

That  glows  with  sunset  fires, 
Shall  reach  the  warm  emotion 
This  welcome  day  inspires, 
Beyond  the  ridges  cold 
Where  a  brother  toils  for  gold, 
Till  it  shine  through  the  mine 
Round  the  BOY  OF  '29. 

If  one  whom  fate  has  broken 
Shall  lift  a  moistened  eye, 
We  '11  say,  before  he  's  spoken  — 
"Old  Classmate,  don't  you  cry  ! 
Here,  take  the  purse  I  hold, 
There  's  a  tear  upon  the  gold  — 
It  was  mine  —  it  is  thine  — 
A'n't  we  BOYS  OF  '29  ?  " 

As  nearer  still  and  nearer 
The  fatal  stars  appear, 
The  living  shall  be  dearer 
With  each  encircling  year, 
Till  a  few  old  men  shall  say, 
"  We  remember  't  is  the  day  — 


THE   OLD    MAN    DREAMS 


Let  it  pass  with  a  glass 
For  the  CLASS  OF  '29." 

As  one  by  one  is  falling 

Beneath  the  leaves  or  snows, 
Each  memory  still  recalling, 
The  broken  ring  shall  close, 
Till  the  night  winds  softly  pass 
O'er  the  green  and  growing  grass, 
Where  it  waves  on  the  graves 
Of  the  BOYS  OF  '29  ! 


QUESTIONS   AND    ANSWERS 

1852 

WHERE,  oh  where  are  the  visions  of  morn 
ing* 

Fresh  as  the  dews  of  our  prime  ? 
Gone,  like  tenants  that  quit  without  warn 
ing* 
Down  the  back  entry  of  time. 

Where,  oh  where  are  life's  lilies  and  roses, 
Nursed  in  the  golden  dawn's  smile  ? 

Dead  as  the  bulrushes  round  little  Moses. 
On  the  old  banks  of  the  Nile. 

Where    are    the    Marys,    and    Anns,    and 
Elizas, 

Loving  and  lovely  of  yore  ? 
Look  in  the  columns  of  old  Advertisers,  — 

Married  and  dead  by  the  score. 

Where  the  gray  colts  and  the  ten-year-old 
fillies, 

Saturday's  triumph  and  joy  ? 
Gone,  like  our  friend  irdSas  UKVS  Achilles, 

Homer's  ferocious  old  boy. 

Die-away  dreams  of  ecstatic  emotion, 
Hopes  like  young  eagles  at  play, 

Vows  of  unheard-of  and  endless  devotion, 
How  ye  have  faded  away  ! 

Yet,  though  the  ebbing  of  Time's  mighty 

river 

Leave  our  young  blossoms  to  die, 
Let   him   roll    smooth    in    his   current  for 
ever, 
Till  the  last  pebble  is  dry. 


AN    IMPROMPTU 


NOT    PREMEDITATED 


THE  clock  has  struck  noon;  ere  it  thrice 

tell  the  hours 
We  shall  meet  round  the  table  that  blushes 

with  flowers, 
And    I    shall    blush    deeper    with    shame- 

driven  blood 
That  I  came  to  the  banquet  and  brought 

not  a  bud. 

Who  cares  that  his  verse  is  a  beggar  in  art 
If  you  see  through  its  rags  the  full  throb 

of  his  heart  ? 
Who  asks  if  his  comrade  is  battered  and 

tanned 
When  he  feels  his  warm  soul  in  the  clasp 

of  his  hand  ? 

No  !  be  it  an  epic,  or  be  it  a  line, 

The  Boys  will  all  love  it  because  it  is  mine; 

I  sung  their  last  song  on  the  morn  of  the 

day 
That  tore  from  their  lives  the  last  blossom 

of  May. 

It  is  not  the  sunset  that  glows  in  the  wine, 
But  the  smile  that  beams  over  it,  makes  it 

divine; 
I  scatter  these  drops,  and  behold,  as  they 

fall, 
The    day-star   of   memory  shines  through 

them  all  ! 

And  these  are  the  last;  they  are  drops  that 

I  stole 
From  a   wine-press   that  crushes    the    life 

from  the  soul, 
But  they  ran  through  my  heart  and  they 

sprang  to  my  brain 
Till  our  twentieth  sweet  summer  was  smil 

ing  again  ! 

THE    OLD    MAN    DREAMS 

1854 

OH  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 
Give  back  my  twentieth  spring  ! 


n6 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


I  'd  rather  laugh,  a  bright-haired  boy, 
Thau  reign,  a  gray-beard  king. 

Off  with  the  spoils  of  wrinkled  age  ! 

Away  with  Learning's  crown  ! 
Tear  out  life's  Wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down  ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame  ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame  ! 


My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 

And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 
"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair 

Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track, 

To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 

To  find  the  wished-for  day  ?  " 

"  Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind  ! 

Without  thee  what  were  life  ? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind: 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  precious  —  wife  !  " 

The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 

And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  husband  too  ! 

"  And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid, 
Before  the  change  appears  ? 

Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years." 

"  Why,  yes;  "  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys; 
"  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all  — 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys." 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen,  — 

"  Why,  this  will  never  do; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father  too  !  " 


And  so  I  laughed,  — my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise,  — 

And   wrote    my   dream,    when    morning 

broke, 
To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 


REMEMBER—  FORGET 

1855 

AND  what  shall  be  the  song  to-night, 

If  song  there  needs  must  be  ? 
If  every  year  that  brings  us  here 

Must  steal  an  hour  from  me  ? 
Say,  shall  it  ring  a  merry  peal, 

Or  heave  a  mourning  sigh 
O'er  shadows  cast,  by  years  long  past, 

On  moments  flitting  by  ? 

Nay,  take  the  first  unbidden  line 

The  idle  hour  may  send, 
No  studied  grace  can  mend  the  face 

That  smiles  as  friend  on  friend; 
The  balsam  oozes  from  the  pine, 

The  sweetness  from  the  rose, 
And  so,  unsought,  a  kindly  thought 

Finds  language  as  it  flows. 

The  years  rush  by  in  sounding  flight, 

I  hear  their  ceaseless  wings; 
Their  songs  I  hear,  some  far,  some  near, 

And  thus  the  burden  rings: 
"  The  morn  has  fled,  the  noon  has  past, 

The  sun  will  soon  be  set, 
The  twilight  fade  to  midnight  shade; 

Remember  —  and  Forget !  " 

Remember  all  that  time  has  brought  — 

The  starry  hope  on  high, 
The  strength  attained,  the  courage  gained, 

The  love  that  cannot  die. 
Forget  the  bitter,  brooding  thought,  — 

The  word  too  harshly  said, 
The  living  blame  love  hates  to  name, 

The  frailties  of  the  dead  ! 

We  have  been  younger,  so  they  say, 

But  let  the  seasons  roll, 
He  doth  not  lack  an  almanac 

Whose  youth  is  in  his  soul. 
The  snows  may  clog  life's  iron  track, 

But  does  the  axle  tire, 
While  bearing  swift  through    bank    and 
drift 

The  engine's  heart  of  fire  ? 

I  lift  a  goblet  in  my  hand; 

If  good  old  wine  it  hold, 
An  ancient  skin  to  keep  it  in 

Is  just  the  thing,  we  're  told. 


MARE   RUBRUM 


117 


We  're  grayer  than  the  dusty  flask,  — 

We  're  older  than  our  wine ; 
Our  corks  reveal  the  "  white  top  "  seal, 

The  stamp  of  '29. 

Ah,  Boys  !  we  clustered  in  the  dawn, 

To  sever  in  the  dark; 
A  merry  crew,  with  loud  halloo, 

We  climbed  our  painted  bark; 
We    sailed    her   through    the    four    years' 
cruise, 

We  '11  sail  her  to  the  last, 
Our  dear  old  flag,  though  but  a  rag, 

Still  flying  on  her  mast. 

So  gliding  on,  each  winter's  gale 

Shall  pipe  us  all  on  deck, 
Till,  faint  and  few,  the  gathering  crew 

Creep  o'er  the  parting  wreck, 
Her  sails  and  streamers  spread  aloft 

To  fortune's  rain  or  shine, 
Till  storm  or  sun  shall  all  be  one, 

And  down  goes  TWENTY-NINE  ! 


OUR    INDIAN    SUMMER 

1856 

You  '11  believe  me,  dear  boys,  't  is  a  pleas 
ure  to  rise, 

With  a  welcome  like  this  in  your  darling 
old  eyes; 

To  meet  the  same  smiles  and  to  hear  the 
same  tone 

Which  have  greeted  me  oft  in  the  years 
that  have  flown. 

Were  I  gray  as  the  grayest  old  rat  in  the 


My  locks  would  turn  brown  at  the  sight  of 


We  have  caged  the  young  birds  of  our 
beautiful  June; 

Their  plumes  are  still  bright  and  their 
voices  in  tune; 

One  moment  of  sunshine  from  faces  like 
these 

And  they  sing  as  they  sung  in  the  green- 
growing  trees. 

The  voices  of  morninc:  !   how  sweet  is  their 


When  the  shadows  have   turned,  and  the 

evening  grows  still  ! 
The  text  of  our  lives  may  get  wiser  with 

age, 
But  the  print  was  so  fair  on  its  twentieth 

page  ! 

Look  off  from  your  goblet   and  up  from 

your  plate, 
Come,  take  the  last  journal,  and  glance  at 

its  date: 
Then  think  what  we  fellows  should  say  and 

should  do, 
If  the  G  were  a  9  and  the  5  were  a  2. 

Ah,  no  !  for  the  shapes  that  would    meet 

with  us  here, 
From  the  far  land  of  shadows,  are  ever  too 

dear  ! 
Though  youth  flung  around  us  its  pride  and 

its  charms, 
We  should  see  but  the  comrades  we  clasped 

in  our  arms. 

A   health  to  our   future  —  a  sigh  for  our 

past, 
We  love,  we  remember,  we  hope  to  the 

last; 
And  for  all  the  base  lies  that  the  almanacs 


If  my  heart  were  as  dry  as  the  shell  on  the 

sand, 
It  would  fill  like  the  goblet  I  hold  in  my 

hand. 


While  we  've   youth   in  our  hearts  we   can 
never  grow  old  ! 

MARE    RUBRUM 

1858 


There  are  noontides  of  autumn  when  sum 
mer  returns, 

Though  the  leaves  are    all  garnered   and  FLASH  out  a  stream  of  blood-red  wine, 

sealed  in  their  urns,  For  I  would  drink  to  other  days, 

And  the  bird  on  his  perch,  that  was  silent  And  brighter  shall  their  memory  shine, 

so  long,  Seen  flaming  through  its  crimson  blaze  ! 

Believes  the  sweet  sunshine  and  breaks  into  The  roses  die,  the  summers  fade, 

song.  :        But  every  ghost  of  boyhood's  dream 


n8 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


By  nature's  magic  power  is  laid 

To  sleep  beneath  this  blood-red  stream  ! 

It  filled  the  purple  grapes  that  lay, 

And  drank  the  splendors  of  the  sun, 
Where  the  long  summer's  cloudless  day 

Is  mirrored  in  the  broad  Garonne; 
It  pictures  still  the  bacchant  shapes 

That  saw  their  hoarded  sunlight  shed,  —7 
The  maidens  dancing  on  the  grapes,  — 

Their   milk-white   ankles  splashed  with 
red. 

Beneath  these  waves  of  crimson  lie, 

In  rosy  fetters  prisoned  fast, 
Those  flitting  shapes  that  never  die, — 

The  swift- winged  visions  of  the  past. 
Kiss  but  the  crystal's  mystic  rim, 

Each  shadow  rends  its  flowery  chain, 
Springs  in  a  bubble  from  its  brim, 

And  walks  the  chambers  of  the  brain. 

Poor  beauty  !     Time  and  fortune's  wrong 

No  shape  nor  feature  may  withstand; 
Thy  wrecks  are  scattered  all  along, 

Like  emptied  sea-shells  on  the  sand; 
Yet,  sprinkled  with  this  blushing  rain, 

The  dust  restores  each  blooming  girl, 
As  if  the  sea-shells  moved  again 

Their  glistening  lips  of  pink  and  pearl. 

Here  lies  the  home  of  school-boy  life, 

With  creaking  stair  and  wind-swept  hall, 
And,  scarred  by  many  a  truant  knife, 

Our  old  initials  on  the  wall; 
Here  rest,  their  keen  vibrations  mute, 

The  shout  of  voices  known  so  well, 
The  ringing  laugh,  the  wailing  flute, 

The  chiding  of  the  sharp-tongued  bell. 

Here,  clad  in  burning  robes,  are  laid 

Life's  blossomed  joys,  untimely  shed, 
And    here    those    cherished    forms    have 
strayed 

We  miss  awhile,  and  call  them  dead. 
What  wizard  fills  the  wondrous  glass  ? 

What  soil  the  enchanted  clusters  grew  ? 
That  buried  passions  wake  and  pass 

In  beaded  drops  of  fiery  dew  ? 

Nay,  take  the  cup  of  blood-red  wine,  — 
Our  hearts  can  boast  a  warmer  glow, 
Filled  from  a  vintage  more  divine, 


Calmed,   but    not    chilled,   by    winter's 

snow  ! 
To-night  the  palest  wave  we  sip 

Rich  as  the  priceless  draught  shall  be 
That  wet  the  bride  of  Cana's  lip,  — 

The  wedding  wine  of  Galilee  ! 


THE    BOYS 

1859 

HAS  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with 
the  boys  ? 

If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making 
a  noise. 

Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Cata 
logue's  spite  ! 

Old  Time  is  a  liar  !  We  're  twenty  to 
night  ! 

We  're    twenty  !      We  're    twenty  !    Who 

says  we  are  more  ? 
He  's    tipsy,  —  young  jackanapes  !  —  show 

him  the  door  ! 
"  Gray  temples  at  twenty  ?  "   -  Yes  !  wlute 

if  we  please; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there  's 

nothing  can  freeze  ! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of  ?     Excuse  the 

mistake  ! 
Look  close,  —  you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a 

flake! 
We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we 

have  shed,  — 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We  've  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may 

have  been  told, 

Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old:  — 
That  boy  we  call  "Doctor,"  and  this  we 

call  "Judge;" 
It 's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course  it 's  all 

fudge. 

That  fellow's  the  "Speaker,"  —  the  one  on 

the  right; 
"  Mr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are  you 

to-night  ? 
That 's  our  "  Member  of  Congress,"  we  say 

when  we  chaff; 
There  's    the    "  Reverend  "     What 's     his 

name  ?  —  don't  make  me  laugh. 


LINES 


119 


That   boy    with    the    grave    mathematical 

look 
Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful 

book, 
And   the  ROYAL  SOCIETY  thought  it  was 

true  ! 
So  they  chose  him  right  in;  a  good  joke  it 

was,  too ! 

There  's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three- 
decker  brain, 
That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical 


When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syl 
labled  fire, 

We  called  him  "  The  Justice,"  but  now 
he  's  "  The  Squire." 

And  there  's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent 

pith,  — 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him 

Smith; 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and 


Just  read   on  his  medal,   "My   country," 


You  hear  that  boy  laughing  ?  — You  think 

he  's  all  fun; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he 

has  done; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to 

his  call, 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs 

loudest  of  all  ! 

Yes,    we're    boys,  —  always    playing   with 

tongue  or  with  pen,  — 
And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  —  Shall  we 

ever  be  men  ? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing, 

and  gay, 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling 

away  ? 

Then  here  's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and 
its  gray  ! 

The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its 
May  ! 

And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-last 
ing  toys, 

Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children, 
THE  BOYS  ! 


LINES 

1860 

I  'M  ashamed,  —  that 's  the  fact,  —  it 's  a 
pitiful  case,  — 

Won't  any  kind  classmate  get  up  in  my 
place  ? 

Just  remember  how  often  I  've  risen  be 
fore,  — 

I  blush  as  I  straighten  my  legs  on  the  floor  ! 

There  are  stories,  once  pleasing,  too  many 

times  told,  — 
There    are    beauties    once    charming,    too 

fearfully  old,  — 
There  are  voices  we  've  heard  till  we  know 

them  so  well, 
Though    they    talked    for  an  hour    they  'd 

have  nothing  to  tell. 

Yet,  Classmates  !  Friends  !  Brothers  !  Dear 

blessed  old  boys  ! 

M;ide  one  by  a  lifetime  of  sorrows  and  joys, 
What  lips  have  such  sounds  as  the  poorest 

of  these, 
Though  honeyed,  like  Plato's,  by  musical 

bees  ?  * 

What  voice  is  so  sweet  and  what  greeting 

so  dear 
As  the  simple,   warm  welcome  that  waits 

for  us  here  ? 
The  love  of  our  boyhood  still  breathes  in 

its  tone, 
And  our  hearts  throb  the  answer,  "  He  's 

one  of  our  own  !  " 

Nay  !  count  not  our  numbers;  some  sixty 

we  know, 
But  these  are  above,  and  those  under  the 


And    thoughts  are  still  mingled  wherever 

we  meet 
For  those  we  remember  with  those  that  we 

greet. 

We    have  rolled  on    life's  journey,  —  how 

fast  and  how  far  ! 

One  round  of  humanity's  many-wheeled  car, 
But  up-hill  and  down-hill,  through    rattle 


Old,  true  Twenty-niners  !  we  've  stuck  to 
our  hub  ! 


120 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


While  a  brain  lives  to  think,  or  a  bosom  to 

feel, 
We  will  cling  to  it  still  like  the  spokes  of 

a  wheel ! 
And  age,  as   it  chills  us,  shall  fasten  the 

tire 
That   youth   fitted   round    in  his  circle  of 

fire! 


A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH 

1861 
(JANUARY  THIRD) 

WE  sing  "  Our  Country's  "  song  to-night 

With  saddened  voice  and  eye ; 
Her  banner  droops  in  clouded  light 

Beneath  the  wintry  sky. 
We  '11  pledge  her  once  in  golden  wine 

Before  her  stars  have  set: 
Though  dim  one  reddening  orb  may  shine, 

We  have  a  Country  yet. 

'T  were  vain  to  sigh  o'er  errors  past, 

The  fault  of  sires  or  sons; 
Our  soldier  heard  the  threatening  blast, 

And  spiked  his  useless  guns ; 
He  saw  the  star-wreathed  ensign  fall, 

By  mad  invaders  torn; 
But  saw  it  from  the  bastioned  wall 

That  laughed  their  rage  to  scorn  ! 

What  though  their  angry  cry  is  flung 

Across  the  howling  wave,  — 
They  smite  the  air  with  idle  tongue 

The  gathering  storm  who  brave; 
Enough  of  speech  !  the  trumpet  rings; 

Be  silent,  patient,  calm,  — 
God  help  them  if  the  tempest  swings 

The  pine  against  the  palm  ! 

Our  toilsome  years  have  made  us  tame; 

Our  strength  has  slept  unfelt; 
The  furnace-fire  is  slow  to  flame 

That  bids  our  ploughshares  melt; 
'T  is  hard  to  lose  the  bread  they  win 

In  spite  of  Nature's  frowns,  — 
To  drop  the  iron  threads  we  spin 

That  weave  our  web  of  towns, 

To  see  the  rusting  turbines  stand 

Before  the  emptied  flumes, 
To  fold  the  arms  that  flood  the  land 

With  rivers  from  their  looms,  — 


But  harder  still  for  those  who  learn 

The  truth  forgot  so  long; 
When  once  their  slumbering  passions  burn, 

The  peaceful  are  the  strong  ! 

The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  weak, 

And  calm  their  frenzied  ire, 
And  save  our  brothers  ere  they  shriek, 

"  We  played  with  Northern  fire  ! " 
The  eagle  hold  his  mountain  height,  — 

The  tiger  pace  his  den  ! 
Give  all  their  country,  each  his  right  ! 

God  keep  us  all !     Amen  ! 

J.    D.    R. 


1862 
that  are,  and 


friends    that 


THE  friends 
were, 

What  shallow  waves  divide  ! 
I  miss  the  form  for  many  a  year 

Still  seated  at  my  side. 

I  miss  him,  yet  I  feel  him  still 
Amidst  our  faithful  band, 

As  if  not  death  itself  could  chill 
The  warmth  of  friendship's  hand. 

His  story  other  lips  may  tell,  — 
For  me  the  veil  is  drawn; 

I  only  knew  he  loved  me  well, 
He  loved  me  —  and  is  gone  ! 


VOYAGE   OF   THE   GOOD    SHIP 
UNION 


1862 


'TIS 


midnight:     through     my     troubled 
dream 

Loud  wails  the  tempest's  cry; 
Before  the  gale,  with  tattered  sail, 

A  ship  goes  plunging  by. 
What     name  ?      Where   bound  ?  —  The 

rocks  around 
Repeat  the  loud  halloo. 
—  The  good  ship  Union,  Southward  bound : 
God  help  her  and  her  crew  ! 

And  is  the  old  flag  flying  still 

That  o'er  your  fathers  flew, 
With  bands  of  white  and  rosy  light, 

And  field  of  starry  blue  ? 


-CHOOSE   YOU   THIS    DAY   WHOM    YE   WILL    SERVE*'     121 


-  Ay  !  look  aloft  !  its  folds  full  oft 
Have  braved  the  roaring  blast, 

And  still  shall  fly  when  from  the  sky 
This  black  typhoon  has  past  ! 

Speak,  pilot  of  the  storm-tost  bark  ! 
May  I  thy  peril  share  ? 

—  O  landsman,  there  are  fearful  seas 
The  brave  alone  may  dare  ! 

—  Nay,  ruler  of  the  rebel  deep, 
What  matters  wind  or  wave  ? 

The  rocks  that  wreck  your  reeling1  deck 
Will  leave  me  naught  to  save  ! 

O  landsman,  art  thou  false  or  true  ? 
What  sign  hast  thou  to  show  ? 

—  The  crimson  stains  from  loyal  veins 
That  hold  my  heart-blood's  "flow  ! 

—  Enough  !  what  more  shall  honor  claim  ? 
I  know  the  sacred  sign; 

Above  thy  head  our  flag  shall  spread, 
Our  ocean  path  be  thine  ! 

The  bark  sails  on;  the  Pilgrim's  Cape 

Lies  low  along  her  lee, 
Whose  headland  crooks  its  anchor-flukes 

To  lock  the  shore  and  sea. 
No  treason  here  !  it  cost  too  dear 

To  win  this  barren  realm  ! 
And  true  and  free  the  hands  must  be 

That  hold  the  whaler's  helm  ! 

Still  on  !     Manhattan's  narrowing  bay 

No  rebel  cruiser  scars; 
Her  waters  feel  no  pirate's  keel 

That  flaunts  the  fallen  stars  ! 

—  But  watch  the  light  on  yonder  height,  — 
Ay,  pilot,  have  a  care  ! 

Some  lingering  cloud  in  mist  may  shroud 
The  capes  of  Delaware  ! 

Say,  pilot,  what  this  fort  may  be, 

Whose  sentinels  look  down 
From  moated  walls  that  show  the  sea 

Their  deep  embrasures'  frown  ? 
The  Rebel  host  claims  all  the  coast, 

But  these  are  friends,  we  know, 
Whose  footprints  spoil  the  "  sacred  soil," 

And  this  is  ?  —  Fort  Monroe  ! 

The     breakers    roar,  —  how     bears     the 
shore  ? 

—  The  traitorous  wreckers'  hands 
Have  quenched  the  blaze  that  poured  its  rays 

Along1  the  Hatteras  sands. 


—  Ha  !  say  not  so  !     I  see  its  glow  ! 

Again  the  shoals  display 
The  beacon  light  that  shines  by  night, 

The  Union  Stars  by  day  ! 

The  good  ship  flies  to  milder  skies, 

The  wave  more  gently  flows, 
The  softening  breeze  wafts  o'er  the  seas 

The  breath  of  Beaufort's  rose. 
What  fold  is  this  the  sweet  winds  kiss, 

Fair-striped  and  many-starred, 
Whose  shadow  palls  these  orphaned  walls, 

The  twins  of  Beauregard  ? 

What  !  heard  you  not  Port  Iloyal's  doom  ? 

How  the  black  war-ships  came 
And  turned  the  Beaufort  roses'  bloom 

To  redder  wreaths  of  flame  ? 
How  from  Rebellion's  broken  reed 

We  saw  his  emblem  fall, 
As  soon  his  cursed  poison- weed 

Shall  drop  from  Sumter's  wall  ? 

On  !  on  !     Pulaski's  iron  hail 

Falls  harmless  on  Tybcc  ! 
The  good  ship  feels  the  freshening  gales, 

She  strikes  the  open  sea ; 
She  rounds  the  point,  she  threads  the  keys 

That  guard  the  Land  of  Flowers, 
And  rides  at  last  where  firm  and  fast 

Her  own  Gibraltar  towers  ! 

The  good  ship  Union's  voyage  is  o'er, 

At  anchor  safe  she  swings, 
And  loud  and  clear  with  cheer  on  cheer 

Her  joyous  welcome  rings: 
Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  it  shakes  the  wave, 

It  thunders  on  the  shore,  — 
One  flag,  one  land,  one  heart,  one  hand, 

One  Nation,  evermore  ! 


"CHOOSE  YOU  THIS  DAY  WHOM 
YE    WILL    SERVE" 

1863 

YES,  tyrants,  you  hate  us,  and  fear  while 
you  hate 

The  self-ruling,  chain-breaking,  throne- 
shaking  State  ! 

The  night-birds  dread  morning,  —  your 
instinct  is  true,  — 

The  day-star  of  Freedom  brings  midnight 
for  you  ! 


122 


POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


Why  plead  with  the  deaf  for  the  cause  of 
mankind  ? 

The  owl  hoots  at  noon  that  the  eagle  is 
blind  ! 

We  ask  not  your  reasons,  —  't  were  wast 
ing  our  time,  — 

Our  life  is  a  menace,  our  welfare  a  crime  ! 

We  have  battles  to  fight,  we  have  foes  to 

subdue,  — 
Time  waits  not  for  us,  and  we  wait  not  for 

you  ! 
The   mower  mows  on,  though  the  adder 

may  writhe 
And  the  copper-head  coil  round  the  blade 

of  his  scythe  ! 

"  No  sides  in  this  quarrel, "your  statesmen 

may  urge, 
Of  school-house  and  wages  with  slave-pen 

and  scourge  !  — 
No   sides  in   the    quarrel !  proclaim  it  as 

well 
To  the  angels  that  fight  with  the  legions  of 


s  ang 
hell 


They  kneel  in  God's  temple,  the  North  and 
the  South, 

With  blood  on  each  weapon  and  prayers  in 
each  mouth. 

Whose  cry  shall  be  answered  ?  Ye  Heav 
ens,  attend 

The  lords  of  the  lash  as  their  voices 
ascend  ! 

"  O  Lord,  we  are  shaped  in  the  image  of 

Thee,  — 
Smite  down  the  base  millions  that  claim  to 

be  free, 
And  lend  thy  strong  arm  to  the  soft-handed 

race 
Who   eat  not  their  bread  in  the  sweat  of 

their  face  !  " 

So  pleads  the  proud  planter.  What  echoes 
are  these  ? 

The  bay  of  his  bloodhound  is  borne  on  the 
breeze, 

And,  lost  in  the  shriek  of  his  victim's 
despair, 

His  voice  dies  unheard.  —  Hear  the  Puri 
tan's  prayer  ! 

"  O  Lord,  that  didst  smother  mankind  in 
thy  flood, 


The   sun   is   as   sackcloth,  the  moon  is  as 

blood, 
The  stars  fall  to   earth   as   untimely   are 

cast 
The  figs  from  the  fig-tree  that  shakes  in 

the  blast ! 

"  All  nations,  all  tribes  in  whose  nostrils  is 

breath 
Stand  gazing  at  Sin  as  she  travails  with 

Death  ! 
Lord,  strangle  the  monster  that  struggles 

to  birth, 
Or  mock  us  no  more  with  thy  '  Kingdom 

on  Earth '  ! 

"  If  Ammon  and  Moab  must  reign  in  the 

land 
Thou  gavest  thine  Israel,  fresh  from  thy 

hand, 

Call  Baal  and  Ashtaroth  out  of  their  graves 
To   be  the  new  gods   for   the   empire  of 

slaves  !  " 

Whose  God  will  ye  serve,  O  ye  rulers  of 
men  ? 

Will  ye  build  you  new  shrines  in  the  slave- 
breeder's  den  ? 

Or  bow  with  the  children  of  light,  as  they 
call 

On  the  Judge  of  the  Earth  and  the  Father 
of  All  ? 

Choose    wisely,  choose  quickly,  for    time 

moves  apace,  — 
Each  day  is   an   age   in   the  life   of    our 

race  ! 
Lord,  lead  them  in  love,  ere  they  hasten  in 

fear 
From  the  fast-rising  flood  that  shall  girdle 

the  sphere  ! 


F.    W.    C. 
1864 

FAST  as  the  rolling  seasons  bring 

The  hour  of  fate  to  those  we  love, 
Each  pearl  that  leaves  the  broken  string 

Is  set  in  Friendship's  crown  above. 
As  narrower  grows  the  earthly  chain, 

The  circle  widens  in  the  sky  ; 
These  are  our  treasures  that  remain, 

But  those  are  stars  that  beam  on  high. 


THE   LAST   CHARGE 


123 


We  miss  —  oh,  bow  we  miss  !  —  his  face,  — 

With  trembling  accents  speak  bis  name. 
Earth  cannot  fill  bis  shadowed  place 

From  all  her  rolls  of  pride  and  fame. 
Our  song  has  lost  the  silvery  thread 

That  carolled  through  his  jocund  lips; 
Our  laugh  is  mute,  our  smile  is  fled, 

And  all  our  sunshine  in  eclipse. 

And  what  and  whence  the  wondrous  charm 

That  kept  his  manhood  boylike  still,  — 
That  life's  bard  censors  could  disarm 

And  lead  them  captive  at  bis  will  ? 
His  heart  was  shaped  of  rosier  clay,  — 

His  veins  were  tilled  with  ruddier  fire, — 
Time  could  not  chill  him,  fortune  sway, 

Nor  toil  with  all  its  burdens  tire. 

His  speech  burst  throbbing  from  its  fount 

And  set  our  colder  thoughts  aglow, 
As  the  hot  leaping  geysers  mount 

And  falling  melt  the  Iceland  snow. 
Some  word,  perchance,  we  counted  rash,  — 

Some  phrase  our  calmness  might  disclaim, 
Yet  't  was  the  sunset's  lightning's  flash, 

No  angry  bolt,  but  harmless  flame. 

Man  judges  all,  God  kuoweth  each; 

We  read  the  rule,  lie  sees  the  law; 
How  oft  his  laughing  children  teach 

The  truths  his  prophets  never  saw  ! 
O  friend,  whose  wisdom  flowered  in  mirth, 

Our  hearts  are  sad,  our  eyes  are  dim; 
He  gave  thy  smiles  to  brighten  earth, — 

We  trust  thy  joyous  soul  to  Him  ! 

Alas  !  —  our  weakness  Heaven  forgive  ! 

We  murmur,  even  while  we  trust, 
(-  How  long  earth's  breathing  burdens  live. 

Whose  hearts,  before  they  die,  are  dust  !  " 
But  thou  !  —  through  grief  's  untimely  tears 

We  ask  with  half-reproachful  sigh  — 
"  Couldst  thou  not  watch  a  few  brief  years 

Till    Friendship    faltered,  '  Thou   mayst 
die  '  ?  " 

Who  loved  our  boyish  years  so  well  ? 

Who  knew  so  well  their  pleasant  tales, 
And  all  those  livelier  freaks  could  tell 

Whose  oft-told  story  never  fails  ? 
In  vain  we  turn  our  aching  eyes,  — 

In  vain  we  stretch  our  eager  hands,  — 
Cold  in  his  wintry  shroud  he  lies 

Beneath  the  dreary  drifting  sands  ! 


Ah,  speak  not  thus  !     He  lies  not  there  ! 

We  see  him,  hear  him  as  of  old  ! 
He  comes  !     He  claims  his  wonted  chair  ; 

His  beaming  face  we  still  behold  ! 
His  voice  rings  clear  in  all  our  songs, 

And  loud  his  mirthful  accents  rise; 
To  us  our  brother's  life  belongs,  — 

Dear  friends,  a  classmate  never  dies  ! 


THE  LAST  CHARGE 

1864 

Now.  men  of  the  North  !  will  you  join  in 

the  strife 
For   country,   for  freedom,  for  honor,    for 

life  ? 
The    giant    grows   blind  in    his  fury  and 

spite,  — 
One    blow  on  his  forehead  will  settle  the 

light  ! 

Flash  full  in  his  eyes  the  blue  lightning  of 

steel, 
And  stun  him  with  cannon-bolts,  peal  upon 

peal  ! 
Mount,  troopers,  and  follow  your  game  to 

its  lair, 
As    the   hound    tracks    the    wolf   and   the 

beagle  the  hare  ! 

Blow,  trumpets,  your  summons,  till  slug 
gards  awake ! 

Beat,  drums,  till  the  roofs  of  the  faint 
hearted  shake  ! 

Yet,  yet,  ere  the  signet  is  stamped  on  the 
scroll, 

Their  names  may  be  traced  on  the  blood- 
sprinkled  roll  ! 

Trust  not  the  false  herald  that  painted  your 

shield: 
True  honor  to-day  must  be  sought  on  the 

field  ! 
Her  scutcheon  shows  white  with  a  blazon  of 

red,  — 
The  life-drops  of  crimson  for  liberty  shed  ! 

The  hour  is  at  hand,  and  the  moment  draws 

nigh; 
The  dog-star  of  treason  grows  dim  in  the 

skv; 


124 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF  '29 


Shine  forth  from  the  battle-cloud,  light  of 

the  morn, 
Call  back  the  bright  hour  when  the  Nation 

was  born  ! 

The   rivers  of   peace  through  our  valleys 

shall  run, 

As  the  glaciers  of  tyranny  melt  in  the  sun; 
Smite,    smite    the   proud    parricide   down 

from  his  throne,  — 
His  sceptre  once  broken,  the  world  is  our 

own  ! 

OUR  OLDEST  FRIEND 

1865 

I  GIVE  you  the  health  of  the  oldest  friend 
That,  short  of  eternity,  earth  can  lend,  — 
A  friend  so  faithful  and  tried  and  true 
That  nothing  can  wean  him  from  me  and 
you. 

When  first  we   screeched  in  the  sudden 

blaze 

Of  the  daylight's  blinding  and  blasting  rays, 
And  gulped  at  the  gaseous,  groggy  air, 
This  old,  old  friend  stood  waiting  there. 

And  when,  with  a  kind  of  mortal  strife, 
We  had  gasped  and  choked  into  breathing 

life, 

He  watched  by  the  cradle,  day  and  night, 
And  held  our  hands  till  we  stood  upright. 

From   gristle   and   pulp  our   frames  have 

grown 

To  stringy  muscle  and  solid  bone; 
While  we  were  changing,  he  altered  not; 
We  might  forget,  but  he  never  forgot. 

He  came  with  us  to  the  college  class,  — 
Little  cared  he  for  the  steward's  pass  ! 
All  the  rest  must  pay  their  fee, 
But  the  grim  old  dead-head  entered  free. 

He  stayed  with  us  while  we  counted  o'er 
Four  times  each  of  the  seasons  four; 
And  with  every  season,  from  year  to  year, 
The  dear  name  Classmate  he  made   more 
dear. 

He  never  leaves  us,  —  he  never  will, 
Till  our  hands  are  cold  and  our  hearts  are 
still; 


On  birthdays,   and  Christmas,  and  New- 
Year's  too, 
He  always  remembers  both  me  and  you. 

Every  year  this  faithful  friend 

His  little  present  is  sure  to  send; 

Every  year,  wheresoe'er  we  be, 

He  wants  a  keepsake  from  you  and  me. 

How  he  loves  ns  !  he  pats  our  heads, 
And,  lo  !   they   are  gleaming   with   silver 

threads; 

And  he  's  always  begging  one  lock  of  hair, 
Till   our   shining  crowns  have  nothing  to 

wear. 

At  length  he  will  tell  us,  one  by  one, 
"  My  child,  your  labor  on  earth  is  done; 
And  now  you  must  journey  afar  to  see 
My  elder  brother,  —  Eternity  !  " 

And  so,  when  long,  long  years  have  passed, 
Some  dear  old  fellow  will  be  the  last,  — 
Never  a  boy  alive  but  he 
Of  all  our  goodly  company  ! 

When  he  lies  down,  but  not  till  then, 
Our  kind  Class-Angel  will  drop  the  pen 
That  writes  in  the  day-book  kept  above 
Our  lifelong  record  of  faith  and  love. 

So  here  's  a  health  in  homely  rhyme 
To  our  oldest  classmate,  Father  Time  ! 
May  our  last  survivor  live  to  be 
As  bald  and  as  wise  and  as  tough  as  he  ! 


SHERMAN  'S  IN  SAVANNAH 


A   HALF-RHYMED   IMPROMPTU 
1865 

LIKP:  the  tribes  of  Israel, 

Fed  on  quails  and  manna, 
Sherman  and  his  glorious  band 
Journeyed  through  the  rebel  land, 
Fed  from  Heaven's  all-bounteous  hand, 

Marching  on  Savannah  ! 

As  the  moving  pillar  shone, 
Streamed  the  starry  banner 
All  day  long  in  rosy  light, 
Flaming  splendor  all  the  night, 
Till  it  swooped  in  eagle  flight 
Down  on  doomed  Savannah  ! 


MY   ANNUAL 


Glory  be  to  God  on  high  ! 

Shout  the  loud  Hosanna  ! 
Treason's  wilderness  is  past, 
Canaan's  shore  is  won  at  last, 
Peal  a  nation's  trumpet-blast,  — 

Sherman  's  in  Savannah  ! 

Soon  shall  Richmond's  tough  old  hide 

Find  a  tough  old  tanner  ! 
Soon  from  every  rebel  wall 
Shall  the  rag  of  treason  fall, 
Till  our  banner  flaps  o'er  all 

As  it  crowns  Savannah  ! 


MY  ANNUAL 

1866 

How  long  will  this  harp  which  you  once 
loved  to  hear 

Cheat  your  lips  of  a  smile  or  your  eyes  of 
a  tear  ? 

How  long  stir  the  echoes  it  wakened  of  old. 

While  its  strings  were  unbroken,  untar 
nished  its  gold  ? 


He  shaped  it,  He  strung  it,  who  fashioned 

the  lyres 
That  ring  with  the  hymns  of  the  seraphim 

choirs. 

Not  mine  are  the  visions  of  beauty  it  brings, 

Not  mine  the  faint  fragrance  around  it  that 
clings; 

Those  shapes  are  the  phantoms  of  years 
that  are  fled, 

Those  sweets  breathe  from  roses  your  sum 
mers  have  shed. 

Each  hour  of  the  past  lends  its  tribute  to 

this, 
Till  it  blooms  like  a  bower  in  the  Garden 

of  Bliss; 
The    thorn   and   the    thistle  may  grow  as 

they  will, 
Where  Friendship  unfolds  there  is  Paradise 

still. 

The  bird  wanders  careless  while   summer 

is  green, 
The   leaf-hidden   cradle   that    rocked    him 


unseen; 
Dear  friends  of  my  boyhood,  my  words  do   |   When    Autumn's    rude    fingers   the  woods 


you  wrong; 
The   heart,  the  heart  only,  shall  throb  in 

my  song; 
It  reads  the  kind  answer  that  looks  from 


till 


your  eyes,  — 

"  We  will  bid  our  old  harper  play  on  ti 
he  dies." 

Though  Youth,  the  fair  angel  that  looked 

o'er  the  strings, 
Has  lost  the  bright  glory  that  gleamed  on 

his  wings, 
Though    the    freshness    of    morning    has 

passed  from  its  tone, 
It   is    still   the  old  harp  that  was  always 

your  own. 

I  claim  not  its  music,  —  each  note  it  affords 
I  strike  from  your  heart-strings,  that  lend 

me  its  chords; 

I  know  you  will  listen  and  love  to  the  last, 
For  it  trembles  and  thrills  with  the  voice 

of  your  past. 

Ah,   brothers  !    dear   brothers  !    the   harp 

that  I  hold 
No  craftsman  could  string  and  no  artisan 

mould; 


have  undressed, 
The  boughs  may  look  bare,  but  they  show 
him  his  nest. 

Too  precious  these  moments  !  the  lustre 
they  fling 

Is  the  light  of  our  year,  is  the  gem  of  its 
ring, 

So  brimming  with  sunshine,  we  almost  for 
get 

The  rays  it  has  lost,  and  its  border  of  jet. 

While  round  us  the  many-lined  halo  is  shed, 
How  dear  are  the  living,  how  near  are  the 


One  circle,  scarce  broken,  these  waiting  be 
low, 

Those  walking  the  shores  where  the  aspho 
dels  blow  ! 

Not  life  shall  enlarge  it  nor  death  shall 
divide, — 

No  brother  new-born  finds  his  place  at  my 
side ; 

No  titles  shall  freeze  us,  no  grandeurs  in 
fest, 

His  Honor,  His  Worship,  are  boys  like  the 
rest. 


126 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


Some  wou  the  world's  homage,  their  names 
we  hold  dear,  — 

But  Friendship,  not  Fame,  is  the  counter 
sign  here; 

Make  room  by  the  conqueror  crowned  in 
the  strife 

For  the  comrade  that  limps  from  the  battle 
of  life  ! 

What  tongue  talks  of  battle?    Too  long 

we  have  heard 

In  sorrow,  in  anguish,  that  terrible  word ; 
It  reddened  the  sunshine,  it  crimsoned  the 

wave, 
It  sprinkled  our  doors  with  the  blood  of  our 

brave. 

Peace,  Peace  come  at  last,  with  her  garland 
of  white; 

Peace  broods  in  all  hearts  as  we  gather  to 
night; 

The  blazon  of  Union  spreads  full  in  the 
sun ; 

We  echo  its  words,  —  We  are  one  !  We 
are  one  ! 


ALL   HERE 
1867 

IT  is  not  what  we  say  or  sing, 

That  keeps  our  charm  so  long  unbroken, 
Though  every  lightest  leaf  we  bring 

May  touch    the    heart    as    friendship's 

token; 
Not  what  we  sing  or  what  we  say 

Can  make  us  dearer  to  each  other; 
We  love  the  singer  and  his  lay, 

But  love  as  well  the  silent  brother. 

Yet  bring  whate'er  your  garden  grows, 

Thrice    welcome    to     our     smiles     and 

praises; 
Thanks  for  the  myrtle  and  the  rose, 

Thanks  for  the  marigolds  and  daisies; 
One  flower  erelong  we  all  shall  claim, 

Alas  !  unloved  of  Amaryllis  — 
Nature's  last  blossom  —  need  I  name 

The  wreath  of  threescore's  silver  lilies  ? 

How  many,  brothers,  meet  to-night 

Around  our  boyhood's  covered  embers  ? 

Go  read  the  treasured  names  aright 
The  old  triennial  list  remembers; 


Though  twenty  wear  the  starry  sign 
That  tells  a  life  has  broke  its  tether, 

The  fifty-eight  of  'twenty-nine  — 

God  bless  THE  BOYS  !  —  are  all  together  ! 

These  come  with  joyous  look  and  word, 

With  friendly  grasp  and  cheerful  greet 
ing*— 
Those  smile  unseen,  and  move  unheard, 

The  angel  guests  of  every  meeting; 
They  cast  no  shadow  in  the  flame 

That  flushes  from  the  gilded  lustre, 
But  count  us  —  we  are  still  the  same; 

One  earthly  band,  one  heavenly  cluster  ! 

Love  dies  not  when  he  bows  his  head 

To  pass  beyond  the  narrow  portals,  — 
The  light  these  glowing  moments  shed 
Wakes  from  their  sleep  our  lost  immor 
tals; 
They  come  as  in  their  joyous  prime, 

Before  their  morning  days  were  num 
bered,  — 

Death  stays  the  envious  hand  of  Time,  — 
The  eyes  have  not  grown  dim  that  slum 
bered  ! 

The  paths  that  loving  souls  have  trod 

Arch   o'er   the    dust   where    worldlings 

grovel 
High  as  the  zenith  o'er  the  sod,  — 

The  cross  above  the  sexton's  shovel ! 
We  rise  beyond  the  realms  of  day: 

They  seem  to  stoop  from  spheres  of  glory 
With  us  one  happy  hour  to  stray, 

While  youth   conies   back   in  song  and 
story. 

Ah  !  ours  is  friendship  true  as  steel 

That  war  has  tried  in  edge  and  temper; 
It  writes  upon  its  sacred  seal 

The  priest's  ubique  —  omnes  —  semper  ! 
It  lends  the  sky  a  fairer  sun 

That  cheers  our  lives  with  rays  as  steady 
As  if  our  footsteps  had  begun 

To  print  the  golden  streets  already  ! 

The  tangling  years  have  clinched  its  knot 

Too  fast  for  mortal  strength  to  sunder; 
The  lightning  bolts  of  noon  are  shot; 

No  fear  of  evening's  idle  thunder  ! 
Too  late  !  too  late  !  —  no  graceless  hand 

Shall  stretch  its  cords  in  vain  endeavor 
To  rive  the  close  encircling  band 

That  made  and  keeps  us  one  forever  ! 


ONCE    MORE 


127 


So  when  upon  the  fated  scroll 

The  falling  stars  have  all  descended, 
And,  blotted  from  the  breathing  roll, 

Our  little  page  of  life  is  ended, 
We  ask  but  one  memorial  line 

Traced  on  thy  tablet,  Gracious  Mother: 
"  My  children.     Boys  of  'l>9. 

In  pace.     How  they  loved  each  other  ! " 


OXCE    MORE 
1868 

Will  I  come  ?     That  is  pleasant !  I  beg  to 

inquire 
If  the  gun  that   I  carry  has   ever  missed 

fire? 
And  which  was  the  muster-roll  —  mention 

but  one  — 
That  missed  your  old  comrade  who  carries 

the  gun  ? 

You  see  me   as  always,   my  hand  on  the 

lock, 
The  cap  on  the  nipple,  the  hammer  full 

cock; 
It  is  rusty,  some  tell  me ;  I  heed  not  the 

scoff; 
It  is  battered  and  bruised,  but  it  always 

goes  off  ! 

"  Is  it  loaded  ?  "      I  '11  bet  you  !      What 

does  n't  it  hold  ? 
Rammed  full  to  the  muzzle  with  memories 

untold; 
Why,  it  scares  me  to  fire,  lest  the  pieces 

should  fly 
Like  the  cannons  that  burst  on  the  Fourth 

of  July  ! 

One  charge  is  a  remnant   of   College-day 

dreams 
(Its    wadding   is    made    of    forensics    and 

themes); 
Ah,  visions  of  fame  !  what  a  flash  in  the 

pan 
As  the  trigger  was  pulled  by  each  clever 

young  man  ! 

And  love  !  Bless  my  stars,  what  a  cart 
ridge  is  there  ! 

With  a  wadding  of  rose-leaves  and  ribbons 
and  hair,  — 


All  crammed  in  one  verse  to  go  off  at  a 

shot  ! 
"  Were  there  ever  such  sweethearts  ?  "     Of 

course  there  were  not  ! 

And  next,  —  what  a  load  !  it  will  split  the 

old  gun,  — 
Three  fingers,  —  four  fingers,  —  five  fingers 

of  fun  ! 
Come  tell  me,  gray  sages,  for  mischief  and 

noise 
Was  there  ever  a  lot  like  us  fellows,  "  The 

Boys  "  ? 

Bump  !  bump  !  down  the  staircase  the  can 
non-ball  goes,  — 

Aha,  old  Professor  !  Look  out  for  your 
toes  ! 

Don't  think,  my  poor  Tutor,  to  sleep  in  your 
bed,  — 

Two  "  Boys" —  'twenty-niners  —  room  over 
your  head  ! 

Remember  the  nights  when  the  tar-barrel 

blazed  ! 
From  red    "  Massachusetts "    the    war-cry 

was  raised; 
And  "  Ilollis  "  and  "  Stoughton  "  reechoed 

the  call; 
Till  P poked  his  head  out  of  IIol  worth y 

Hall ! 

Old  P ,  as  we  called  him,  —  at  fifty  or 

so,  — 
Not  exactly  a  bud,   but  not   quite   in   full 

blow ; 
In  ripening  manhood,  suppose  we  should 

say, 
Just  nearing  his  prime,  as  we  boys  are  to- 

day! 

Oh  say,  can  you  look  through  the  vista  of 
"  age 

To  the  time  when  old  Morse  drove  the  reg 
ular  stage  ? 

When  Lyon  told  tales  of  the  long-vanished 
years, 

And  Lenox  crept  round  with  the  rings  in 
his  ears  ? 

And  dost  thou,  my  brother,  remember  in 
deed 

The  days  of  our  dealings  with  Willard  and 
Read  ? 


128 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


When  "  Dolly  "  was  kicking  and  running 

away, 
And   punch   came   up   smoking   on   Fille- 

brown's  tray  ? 

But  where  are  the  Tutors,  my  brother,  oh 

tell !  — 
And  where  the  Professors,  remembered  so 

well  ? 
The   sturdy   old    Grecians   of    Holworthy 

Hall, 
And  Latin,  and  Logic,  and  Hebrew,  and 

all? 

"  They   are   dead,   the   old   fellows "   (we 

called  them  so  then, 
Though  we  since  have  found  out  they  were 

lusty  young  men). 
They  are  dead,  do  you  tell  me  ?  —  but  how 

do  you  know  ? 
You  've  filled  once  too  often.     I  doubt  if 

it 's  so. 

I  '111  thinking.  I  'm  thinking.  Is  this 
'sixty-eight  ? 

It 's  not  quite  so  clear.  It  admits  of  de 
bate. 

I  may  have  been  dreaming.  I  rather  in 
cline 

To  think  —  yes,  I  'm  certain  —  it  is  'twenty- 
nine  ! 

"  By  Zhorzhe  !  "  —  as  friend  Sales  is  accus 
tomed  to  cry,  — 

You  tell  me  they  're  dead,  but  I  know  it 's 
a  lie ! 

Is  Jackson  not  President  ?  —  What  was 't 
you  said  ? 

It  can't  be;  you're  joking;  what, — all  of 
'em  dead  ? 

Jim,  —  Harry,  —  Fred,  —  Isaac,  —  all  gone 

from  our  side  ? 
They  could  n't  have  left  us,  —  no,   not   if 

they  tried. 
Look,  —  there  's     our     old     Prseses,  —  he 

can't  find  his  text; 
See,  —  P rubs  his  leg,  as  he  growls  out 

"  The  next !  " 

I  told  you  't  was  nonsense.     Joe,  give  us  a 

song  ! 
Go  harness   up    "Dolly,"   and    fetch   her 

along  !  — 


Dead !     Dead  !     You  false   graybeard,   I 

swear  they  are  not  ! 
Hurrah  for  Old  Hickory  !  —  Oh,  I  forgot  ! 

Well,  one  we  have  with  us  (how  could  he 

contrive 
To  deal  with  us  youngsters  and  still  to 

survive  ?) 
Who   wore   for   our   guidance   authority's 

robe,  — 
No  wonder  he  took  to  the  study  of  Job  ! 

And   now,  as  my   load   was   uncommonly 

large, 

Let  me  taper  it  off  with  a  classical  charge ; 
When  that  has  gone  off,  I  shall  drop  my 

old  gun  — 
And  then  stand  at  ease,  for  my  service  is 

done. 

Bibamus  ad  Classem  vocatam  "  The  Boys  " 
Et  eorum  Tutorem  cui  nomen  est  "  Noyes;  " 
Et.floreant,  valeant,  vigeant  tarn, 
Non  Peircius  ipse  enumeret  quam  I 


THE    OLD    CRUISER 
1869 

HERE  's  the  old  cruiser,  'Twenty-nine, 
Forty  times  she  's  crossed  the  line; 
Same  old  masts  and  sails  and  crew, 
Tight  and  tough  and  as  good  as  new. 

Into  the  harbor  she  bravely  steers 
Just  as  she  's  done  for  these  forty  years,  — 
Over  her  anchor  goes,  splash  and  clang  ! 
Down  her  sails  drop,  rattle  and  bang  ! 

Comes  a  vessel  out  of  the  dock 
Fresh  and  spry  as  a  fighting-cock, 
Feathered    with    sails    and   spurred   with 

steam, 
Heading  out  of  the  classic  stream. 

Crew  of  a  hundred  all  aboard, 
Every  man  as  fine  as  a  lord. 
Gay  they  look  and  proud  they  feel, 
Bowling  along  on  even  keel. 

On  they  float  with  wind  and  tide,  — 
Gain  at  last  the  old  ship's  side; 
Every  man  looks  down  in  turn,  — 
Reads  the  name  that 's  on  her  stern. 


HYMN    FOR   THE   CLASS-MEETING 


129 


"  Twenty-nine  !  —  DiaUe  you  say  ! 
That  was  in  Skipper  Kirkland's  day  ! 
What  was  the  Flying  Dutchman's  name  ? 
This  old  rover  must  be  the  same. 

"  Ho  !  you  Boatswain  that  walks  the  deck, 
How  does  it  happen  you  're  not  a  wreck  ? 
One  and  another  have  come  to  grief, 
How  have  you  dodged  by  rock  and  reef  ?  " 

Boatswain,  lifting  one  knowing  lid, 
Hitches  his  breeches  and  shifts  his  quid: 
"  Hey  ?     What   is    it  ?     Who  's    come    to 

grief  ? 
Louder,  young  swab,  I  'in  a  little  deaf." 

"  I  say,  old  fellow,  what  keeps  your  boat 
With  all  you  jolly  old  boys  afloat, 
When  scores  of  vessels  as  good  as  she 
Have  swallowed  the  salt  of  the  bitter  sea  ? 

"  Many  a  crew  from  many  a  craft 
Goes  drifting  by  on  a  broken  raft 
Pieced  from  a  vessel  that  clove  the  brine 
Taller  and  prouder  than  'Twenty-nine. 

"  Some  capsized  in  an  angry  breeze, 
Some  were  lost  in  the  narrow  seas, 
Some  on  snags  and  some  on  sands 
Struck  and  perished  and  lost  their  hands. 

"  Tell  us  young  ones,  you  gray  old  man, 
What  is  your  secret,  if  you  can. 
We  have  a  ship  as  good  as  you, 
Show  us  how  to  keep  our  crew." 

So  in  his  ear  the  youngster  cries; 
Then    the    gray    Boatswain    straight    re 
plies  :  — 

"  All  your  crew  be  sure  you  know,  — 
Never  let  one  of  your  shipmates  go. 

"  If  he  leaves  you,  change  your  tack, 
Follow  him  close  and  fetch  him  back; 
When  you  've  hauled  him  in  at  last, 
Grapple  his  flipper  and  hold  him  fast. 

"  If  you  've  wronged  him,  speak  him  fair, 
Say  you  're  sorry  and  make  it  square ; 
If  he  's  wronged  you,  wink  so  tight 
None  of  yon  see  what 's  plain  in  sight. 

"  When  the  world  goes  hard  and  wrong, 
Lend  a  hand  to  help  him  along; 


When  his  stockings  have  holes  to  darn, 
Don't  you  grudge  him  your  ball  of  yarn. 

"  Once  in  a  twelvemonth,  come  what  may, 

Anchor  your  ship  in  a  quiet  bay, 

Call  all  hands  and  read  the  log, 

And  give  'em  a  taste  of  grub  and  grog. 

"  Stick  to  each   other  through  thick  and 

thin; 

All  the  closer  as  age  leaks  in; 
Squalls  will  blow  and  clouds  will  frown, 
But    stay    by    your    ship    till    you    all    go 

down  !  " 

ADDED       FOR      THE      ALU.MXI       MEETING, 
JUNE    29,    1869. 

So  the  gray  Boatswain  of  'Twenty-nine 
Piped  to  "  The  Boys  "  as  they  crossed  the 

line; 

Round  the  cabin  sat  thirty  guests, 
Babes  of  the  nurse  with  a  thousand  breasts. 

There  were  the  judges,  grave  and  grand, 
Flanked  by  the  priests  on  either  hand; 
There  was  the  lord  of  wealth  untold, 
And  the  dear  good  fellow  in  broadcloth  old. 

Thirty  men,  from  twenty  towns, 

Sires      and      grandsires      with      silvered 

crowns,  — 

Thirty  school-boys  all  in  a  row,  — 
Bens  and  Georges  and  Bill  and  Joe. 

In  thirty  goblets  the  wine  was  poured, 
But     threescore      gathered      around      the 

board, — 

For  lo  !  at  the  side  of  every  chair 
A  shadow  hovered  —  we  all  were  there  ! 


HYMX    FOR    THE    CLASS-MEET 
ING 

1869 

THOU  Gracious  Power,  whose  mercy  lends 
The  light  of  home,  the  smile  of  friends, 
Our  gathered  flock  thine  arms  infold 
As  in  the  peaceful  days  of  old. 

Wilt  thou  not  hear  us  while  we  raise, 
In  sweet  accord  of  solemn  praise, 


130 


POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


The  voices  that  have  mingled  long 
In  joyous  flow  of  mirth  and  song  ? 

For  all  the  blessings  life  has  brought, 
For  all  its  sorrowing  hours  have  taught, 
For  all  we  mourn,  for  all  we  keep, 
The  hands  we  clasp,  the  loved  that  sleep; 

The  noontide  sunshine  of  the  past, 
These  brief,  bright  moments  fading  fast, 
The  stars  that  gild  our  darkening  years, 
The  twilight  ray  from  holier  spheres; 

We  thank  thee,  Father  !  let  thy  grace 
Our  narrowing  circle  still  embrace, 
Thy  mercy  shed  its  heavenly  store, 
Thy  peace  be  with  us  evermore  ! 


EVEN-SONG 

1870 

IT  may  be,   yes,  it  must  be,  Time  that 

brings 

An  end  to  mortal  things, 
That  sends  the  beggar  Winter  in  the  train 

Of  Autumn's  burdened  wain,  — 
Time,  that  is  heir  of  all  our  earthly  state, 

And  knoweth  well  to  wait 
Till  sea  hath  turned  to  shore  and  shore  to 

sea, 

If  so  it  need  must  be, 
Ere  he  make  good  his  claim  and  call  his 

own 

Old  empires  overthrown,  — 
Time,  who  can  find  no  heavenly  orb  too 

large 

To  hold  its  fee  in  charge, 
Nor  any  motes  that  fill  its  beam  so  small, 

But  he  shall  care  for  all,  — 
It  may  be,  must  be,  —  yes,  he  soon  shall 

tire 
This  hand  that  holds  the  lyre. 

Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

When  to  my  careless  lay 
I  matched  its  chords  and  stole  their  first 
born  thrill, 

With  untaught  rudest  skill 
Vexing  a  treble  from  the  slender  strings 

Thin  as  the  locust  sings 
When  the  shrill-crying  child  of  summer's 
heat 

Pipes  from  its  leafy  seat, 


The  dim  pavilion  of  embowering  green 

Beneath  whose  shadowy  screen 
The  small  sopranist  tries  his  single  note 

Against  the  song-bird's  throat, 
And  all  the  echoes  listen,  but  in  vain ; 

They  hear  no  answering  strain,  — 
Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

Shall  sadly  turn  away, 

Saying,  "  The  fire  burns  low,  the  hearth  is 
cold 

That  warmed  our  blood  of  old; 
Cover  its  embers  and  its  half-burnt  brands, 

And  let  us  stretch  our  hands 
Over  a  brighter  and  fresh-kindled  flame; 

Lo,  this  is  not  the  same, 
The  joyous  singer  of  our  morning  time, 

Flushed  high  with  lusty  rhyme  ! 
Speak  kindly,  for  he  bears  a  human  heart, 

But  whisper  him  apart,  — 
Tell   him   the    woods  their  autumn   robes 
have  shed 

And  all  their  birds  have  fled, 
And   shouting   winds   unbuild   the    naked 
nests 

They  warmed  with  patient  breasts; 
Tell   him   the   sky   is   dark,   the   summer 
o'er, 

And  bid  him  sing  no  more  !  " 

Ah,  welladay  !  if  words  so  cruel-kind 

A  listening  ear  might  find  ! 
But  who  that  hears  the  music  in  his  soul 

Of  rhythmic  waves  that  roll 
Crested  with  gleams  of   fire,  and  as  they 
flow 

Stir  all  the  deeps  below 
Till  the  great  pearls  no  calm  might  ever 
reach 

Leap  glistening  on  the  beach,  — 
Who  that  has  known  the  passion  and  the 
pain, 

The  rush  through  heart  and  brain, 
The  joy  so  like  a  pang  his  hand  is  pressed 

Hard  on  his  throbbing  breast, 
When  thou,  whose  smile  is  life  and  bliss 
and  fame 

Hast  set  "his  pulse  aflame, 
Muse  of  the  lyre  !  can  say  farewell  to  thee? 

Alas  !  and  must  it  be  ? 

In  many  a  clime,  in  many  a  stately  tongue, 

The  mighty  bards  have  sung; 
To  these  the  immemorial  thrones  belong 

And  purple  robes  of  song; 


THE   SMILING   LISTENER 


Yet    the  slight  minstrel  loves  the  slender 

tone 

His  lips  may  call  his  own, 
And  finds  the  measure  of  the  verse  more 

sweet, 

Timed  by  his  pulse's  beat, 
Than   all   the   hymnings  of  the    laurelled 

throng. 

Say  not  I  do  him  wrong, 
For  Nature  spoils  her  warblers,  —  them  she 

feeds 

In  lotus-growing  meads 
And  pours    them    subtle    draughts     from 

haunted  streams 
That  fill  their  souls  with  dreams. 

Full    well   I  know   the  gracious  mother's 
wiles 

And  dear  delusive  smiles  ! 
No  callow  fledgling'  of  her  singing  brood 

But  tastes  that  witching  food, 
And  hearing  overhead  the  eagle's  wing, 

And  how  the  thrushes  sing, 
Vents  his  exiguous  chirp,  and  from  his  nest 

Flaps  forth  —  we  know  the  rest. 
I  own  the  weakness  of  the  tuneful  kind,  — 

Are  not  all  harpers  blind  ? 
I  sang  too  early,  must  I  sing  too  late  ? 

The  lengthening  shadows  wait 
The  first  pale  stars  of  twilight,  —  yet  how 
sweet 

The  flattering  whisper's  cheat.  — 
"  Thou  hast  the  fire  no  evening  chill  can 
tame, 

Whose  coals  outlast  its  flame  !  " 

Farewell,  ye  carols  of  the  laughing  morn, 

Of  earliest  sunshine  born  ! 
The  sower  flings  the  seed  and  looks  not  back 

Along  his  furrowed  track; 
The    reaper   leaves     the    stalks    for    other 

hands 

To  gird  with  circling  bands; 
The  wind,  earth's  careless  servant,  truant- 
born, 

Blows  clean  the  beaten  corn 
And  quits  the  thresher's  floor,  and  goes  his 

way 

To  sport  with  ocean's  spray; 
The  headlong-stumbling  rivulet  scrambling 

down 

To  wash  the  sea-girt  town, 
Still  babbling    of   the    green    and    billowy 

waste 
Whose  salt  he  longs  to  taste, 


i  Ere  his  warm  wave  its  chilling  clasp  may 

feel 
Has  twirled  the  miller's  wheel. 

j  The  song  has  done  its  task  that  makes  us 

bold 

With  secrets  else  untold,  — 
I  And  mine  has  run  its  errand;  through  the 

dews 

I  tracked  the  flying  Muse ; 
'  The  daughter  of  the  morning  touched  my 

lips 

With  roseate  finger-tips; 
j   Whether    I    would  or  would    not.  I   must 

sing 

With  the  new  choirs  of  spring; 
Now,  as  I  watch  the  fading  autumn  day 

And  trill  my  softened  lay, 
I  think  of  all  that  listened,  and  of  one 

For  whom  a  brighter  sun 
Dawned  at  high  summer's  noon.     Ah,  com 
rades  dear, 

Arc  not  all  gathered  here  ? 
Our    hearts  have    answered.  —  Yes  !     they 

hear  our  call  : 
All  gathered  here  !  all  !  all  ! 


THE   SMILING   LISTENER 
1871 

PRECISELY.     I  see  it.     You  all  want  to  say 
That  a  tear  is  too  sad  and  a  laugh  is  too  gay ; 
You    could  stand  a  faint  smile,  you  could 

manage  a  sigh, 
But   you  value    your    ribs,  and   you    don't 

want  to  cry. 

And  why  at  our  feast  of  the  clasping  of 
hands 

Need  we  turn  on  the  stream  of  our  lachry 
mal  glands  ? 

Though  we  see  the  white  breakers  of  age 
on  our  bow, 

Let  us  take  a  good  pull  in  the  jolly-boat 
now  ! 

It 's  hard  if  a  fellow  cannot  feel  content 
When  a  banquet  like  this  does  n't  cost  him 

a  cent, 
When  his  goblet  and  plate  he  may  empty 

at  will, 
And  our  kind  Class  Committee  will  settle 

the  bill. 


132 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF  '29 


And  here  's  your  old  friend,  the  identical 

bard 
Who  has  rhymed  and  recited  you  verse  by 

the  yard 
Since   the  days  of  the  empire  of  Andrew 

the  First 
Till  you  're  full  to  the  brim  and  feel  ready 

to  burst. 

It  's  awful  to  think  of,  —  how   year   after 

year 
With  his  piece  in  his  pocket  he  waits  for 

you  here; 
No  matter  who 's  missing,  there  always  is 

one 
To  lug  out  his  manuscript,  sure  as  a  gun. 

"  Why  won't  he  stop  writing  ?  "  Humanity 

cries: 
The  answer  is  briefly,   "  He   can't    if   he 

tries ; 
He  has  played  with  his  foolish  old  feather 

so  long, 
That  the  goose-quill  in  spite  of  him  cackles 

in  song." 

You  have  watched  him  with  patience  from 

morning  to  dusk 
Since  the  tassel  was  bright  o'er  the  green 

of  the  husk, 
And   now  —  it's  too   bad  —  it's   a  pitiful 

job  — 
He  has  shelled  the  ripe  ear  till  he  's  come 

to  the  cob. 

I  see  one  face  beaming  —  it  listens  so  well 
There  must  be  some  music  yet  left  in  my 

shell  — 
The  wine  of  my  soul  is  not  thick  on  the 

lees; 
One  string  is  unbroken,  one  friend  I  can 

please  ! 

Dear  comrade,  the  sunshine  of  seasons  gone 

by 

Looks   out   from   your    tender   and   tear- 
moistened  eye, 

A  pharos  of  love  on  an  ice-girdled  coast,  — 
Kind  soul  !  —  Don't  you  hear  me  ?  —  He  's 
deaf  as  a  post ! 

Can  it  be  one  of  Nature's  benevolent  tricks 
That  you  grow  hard  of  hearing  as  I  grow 


And  that  look  of  delight  which  would  an 
gels  beguile 

Is  the  deaf  man's  prolonged  unintelligent 
smile  ? 

Ah!  the  ear  may  grow  dull,  and  the  eye 

may  wax  dim, 
But   they   still   know  a  classmate  —  they 

can't  mistake  him ; 
There  is  something  to  tell  us,  "  That 's  one 

of  our  band," 
Though  we  groped  in  the  dark  for  a  touch 

of  his  hand. 

Well,  Time  with  his  snuffers  is  prowling 

about 
And  his  shaky  old  fingers  will  soon  snuff 

us  out  ; 
There  's  a  hint  for  us  all  in  each  pendulum 

tick, 
For  we  're  low  in  the  tallow  and  long  in  the 

wick. 

You  remember  Rossini  —  you  've  been  at 

the  play  ? 
How   his  overture-endings    keep   crashing 

away 
Till  you  think,  "  It 's  all  over  —  it  can't  but 

stop  now  — 
That 's  the  screech  and  the  bang   of   the 

final  bow-wow." 

And  you  find  you  're  mistaken  ;  there  's 
lots  more  to  come, 

More  banging,  more  screeching  of  fiddle 
and  drum, 

Till  when  the  last  ending  is  finished  and 
done, 

You  feel  like  a  horse  when  the  winning- 
post  's  won. 

So  I,  who  have  sung  to  you,  merry,  or  sad, 
Since   the   days   when   they   called   me    a 


promising  lad, 
rh  I" 


pro 


grov 
lix  ? 


Though  I  Ve  made  you  more  rhymes  than 
a  tutor  could  scan, 

Have  a  few  more  still  left,  like  the  razor- 
strop  man. 

Now  pray  don't  be  frightened  —  I  'm  ready 
to  stop 

My  galloping  anapests'  clatter  and  pop  — 
!   In  fact,  if  you  say  so,  retire  from  to-day 
j  To  the  garret  I  left,  on  a  poet's  half-pay. 


OUR    SWEET   SINGER 


And  yet  —  I  can't  help  it  —  perhaps  —  who 
can  tell  ? 

You  might  miss  the  poor  singer  you  treated 
so  well, 

And  confess  you  could  stand  him  five  min 
utes  or  so, 

"  It  was  so  like  old  times  we  remember,  you 
know." 

'T  is  not  that  the  music  can  signify  much, 
But  then  there  are  chords  that  awake  with 

a  touch, — 
And  our  hearts  can  find  echoes  of  sorrow 

and  joy 
To  the  winch  of   the    minstrel  who    hails 

from  Savoy. 

So  this  hand-organ  tune  that  I  cheerfully   , 

grind 
May  bring   the    old   places    and    faces   to 

mind, 

And  seen  in  the  light  of  the  past  we  recall 
The  flowers  that  have  faded  bloom  fairest 

of  all  ! 


OUR    SWEET    SINGER 


ONE  memory  trembles  on  our  lips ; 

It  throbs  in  every  breast ; 
In  tear-dimmed  eyes,  in  mirth's  eclipse, 

The  shadow  stands  confessed. 

()  silent  voice,  that  cheered  so  long 
Our  manhood's  marching  day, 

Without  thy  breath  of  heavenly  song, 
How  weary  seems  the  way  ! 

Vain  every  pictured  phrase  to  tell 
Our  sorrowing  heart's  desire,  — 

The  shattered  harp,  the  broken  shell, 
The  silent  unstrung  lyre; 

For  3'outh  was  round  us  while  he  sang; 

It  glowed  in  every  tone; 
With  bridal  chimes  the  echoes  rang, 

And  made  the  past  our  own. 

Oh  blissful  dream  !     Our  nursery  joys 
We  know  must  have  an  end, 

But  love  and  friendship's  broken  toys 
May  God's  good  angels  mend  ! 


The  cheering  smile,  the  voice  of  mirth 
And  laughter's  gay  surprise 

That  please  the  children  born  of  earth, 
Why  deem  that  Heaven  denies  ? 

Methinks  in  that  refulgent  sphere 
That  knows  not  sun  or  moon, 

An  earth-born  saint  might  long  to  hear 
One  verse  of  "Bonny  Doon;" 

Or  walking  through  the  streets  of  gold 
In  heaven's  unclouded  light, 

His  lips  recall  the  song  of  old 
And  hum  "  The  sky  is  bright." 

And  can  wre  smile  when  thou  art  dead  ? 

Ah,  brothers,  even  so  ! 
The  rose  of  summer  will  be  red, 

In  spite  of  winter's  snow. 

Thou  wouldst  not  leave  us  all  in  gloom 

Because  thy  son^  is  still, 
Nor  blight  the  banquet-garland's  bloom 

With  grief's  untimely  chill. 

The  sighing  wintry  winds  complain,  — 
The  singing  bird  lias  ilown,  — 

Hark  !  heard  I  not  that  ringing  strain, 
That  clear  celestial  tone  ? 

How  poor  these  pallid  phrases  seem, 
How  weak  this  tinkling  line, 

As  warbles  through  my  waking  dream 
That  angel  voice  of  thine  ! 

Thy  requiem  asks  a  sweeter  lay; 

It  falters  on  my  tongue; 
For  all  we  vainly  strive  to  say, 

Thou  shouldst  thyself  have  sung  ! 


H.  C.   M.     H.  S.     J.  K.  \V. 

1873 

THE  dirge  is  played,  the  throbbing  death- 
peal  rung, 

The  sad-voiced  requiem  sung; 
On  each  white  urn  where  memory  dwells 
The  wreath  of  rustling  immortelles 

Our  loving  hands  have  hung, 
And  balmiest  leaves  have  strown  and  ten- 
derest  blossoms  flungf. 


134 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


The  birds  that  filled  the   air  with  songs 

have  flown, 

The  wintry  blasts  have  blown, 
And  these  for  whom  the  voice  of  spring 
Bade  the  sweet  choirs  their  carols  sing 

Sleep  in  those  chambers  lone 
Where  snows  untrodden  lie,  unheard   the 
night  winds  moan. 

We  clasp  them  all  in  memory,  as  the  vine 

Whose  running  stems  untwine 
The  marble  shaft,  and  steal  around        • 
The  lowly  stone,  the  nameless  mound; 

With  sorrowing  hearts  resign 
Our  brothers  true  and  tried,  and  close  our 
broken  line. 

How  fast  the  lamps  of  life  grow  dim  and  die 

Beneath  our  sunset  sky  ! 
Still  fading,  as  along  our  track 
We  cast  our  saddened  glances  back, 

And  while  we  vainly  sigh 
The  shadowy  day  recedes,  the  starry  night 
draws  nigh. 

As  when  from  pier  to  pier  across  the  tide 

With  even  keel  we  glide, 
The  lights  we  left  along  the  shore 
Grow  less  and  less,  while  more,  yet  more 

New  vistas  open  wide 

Of  fair   illumined   streets   and    casements 
golden-eyed. 

Each  closing  circle  of  our  sunlit  sphere 
Seems  to  bring  heaven  more  near: 
Can  we  not  dream  that  those  we  love 
Are  listening  in  the  world  above 

And  smiling  as  they  hear 
The  voices  known  so  well  of  friends  that 
still  are  dear  ? 

Does  all  that  made  us  human  fade  away 

With  this  dissolving  clay  ? 
Nay,  rather  deem  the  blessed  isles 
Are  bright  and  gay  with  joyous  smiles, 

That  angels  have  their  play, 
And  saints   that   tire   of   song  may  claim 
their  holiday. 

All  else  of  earth  may  perish;  love  alone 

Not  heaven  shall  find  outgrown  ! 
Are  they  not  here,  our  spirit  guests, 
With  love  still  throbbing  in  their  breasts  ? 

Once  more  let  flowers  be  strown. 
Welcome,  ye  shadowy  forms,  we  count  you 
still  our  own  ! 


WHAT  I  HAVE  COME  FOR 

1873 

I  HAVE  come  with  my  verses  —  I  think  I 

may  claim 
It  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  tried  on  the 

same. 
They  were  puckered  in  rhyme,  they  were 

wrinkled  in  wit; 
But  your  hearts  were  so  large  that   they 

made  them  a  fit. 

I  have  come  —  not  to  tease  you  with  more 

of  my  rhyme, 

But  to  feel  as  I  did  in  the  blessed  old  time ; 
I  want  to  hear  him  with  the  Brobdingnag 

laugh  — 
We  count  him  at  least  as  three  men  and  a 

half. 

I  have  come  to  meet  judges  so  wise  and  so 

fraud 
shake  in  my  shoes  while  they're 
shaking  my  hand; 
And  the  prince  among  merchants  who  put 

back  the  crown 

When  they  tried  to  enthrone  him  the  King 
of  the  Town. 

I  have  come  to  see  George  —  Yes,  I  think 

there  are  four, 
If   they  all  were  like  these  I  could   wish 

there  were  more. 
I  have  come  to  see  one  whom  we  used  to 

call  "Jim," 
I  want  to  see  —  oh,  don't  I  want  to  see 

him  ? 

I  have  come  to  grow  young  —  on  my  word 

I  declare 
I  have  thought  I  detected  a  change  in  my 

hair ! 
One  hour  with  "  The  Boys  "  will  restore  it 

to  brown  — 
And  a  wrinkle  or  two  I  expect  to  rub  down. 

Yes,  that 's  what  I  've  come  for,  as  all  of 

us  come; 
When  I  meet  the  dear  Boys  I  could  wish  I 

were  dumb. 
You  asked  me,  you  know,  but  it 's  spoiling 

the  fun; 
I  have  told  what  I  came  for;  my  ditty  is 

done. 


OUR  BANKER 


OUR  BANKER 

1874 

OLD  TIME,  in  whose  bank  we  deposit  our 

notes, 
Is  a  miser  who  always  wants  guineas  for 

groats; 

lie  keeps  all  his  customers  still  in  arrears 
By    lending    them    minutes    and    charging 

them  years. 

The  twelvemonth  rolls  round  and  we  never 

forget 
On  the  counter  before  us  to  pay  him  our 

debt. 
We  reckon  the  marks  he  has  chalked  on 

the  door, 
Pay  up  and  shake  hands  and  begin  a  new 

score. 

How  long  he  will  lend  us,  how  much  we 

may  owe, 
No   angel    will    tell    us,    no    mortal    may 

know. 
At   fivescore,    at  fourscore,    at   threescore 

and  ten, 
He  may  close  the  account  with  a  stroke  of 

his  pen. 

This    only  we  know,  —  amid  sorrows  and 

joys 
Old   Time   has   been  easy  and   kind  with 

"  The  Boys." 
Though  he  must  have   and  will  have  and 

does  have  his  pay, 
We  have  found  him  good-natured  enough 

in  his  way. 

lie  never  forgets  us,  as  others  will  do.  — 
I   am  sure  he  knows  me,  and  I  think  he 

knows  you, 
For  I  see  on  your  foreheads  a  mark  that 

he  lends 
As  a  sign  he  remembers  to  visit  his  friends. 

In  the  shape  of  a  classmate  (a  wig  on  his 
crowrn,  — 

His  day-book  and  ledger  laid  carefully 
down) 

He  lias  welcomed  us  yearly,  a  glass  in  his 
hand, 

And  pledged  the  good  health  of  our  bro 
therly  band. 


He  's  a  thief,  we  must  own,  but  how  many 

there  be 

That  rob  us  less  gently  and  fairly  than  he: 
He  has  stripped  the  green  leaves  that  were 

over  us  all, 
But  they  let  in  the  sunshine  as  fast  as  they 

fall. 

Young  beauties  may  ravish  the  world  with 

a  glance 
As  they  languish  in  song,  as  they  float  in 

the  dance,  — 
They  are  grandmothers  now  we  remember 

as  girls, 
And  the  comely  white  cap  takes  the  place 

of  the  curls. 

But  the  sighing  and  moaning  and  groaning 

are  o'er, 
We   are  pining  and  moping  and  sleepless 

no  more, 
And    the    hearts  that  were  thumping  like 

ships  on  the  rocks 
Beat  as  quiet  and  steady  as  meeting-house 

clocks. 

The  trump  of  ambition,  loud  sounding  and 

shrill, 
May  blow  its  long  blast,  but  the  echoes  are 

still, 
The    spring-tides    are  past,   but   no  billow 

may  reach 
The  spoils  they  have  landed  far  up  on  the 

beach. 

We  see  that  Time  robs  us,  we  know  that 

he  cheats, 
But  we  still  find  a  charm  in  his  pleasant 

deceits, 
While    he  leaves    the  remembrance  of  all 

that  was  best, 
Love,  friendship,  and  hope,  and  the  promise 

of  rest. 

Sweet  shadows  of  twilight  !  how  calm  their 

repose, 
While  the  dewdrops  fall  soft  in  the  breast 

of  the  rose  ! 

How  blest  to  the  toiler  his  hour  of  release 
When  the  vesper  is  heard  with  its  whisper 

of  peace  ! 

Then   here  's    to   the  wrinkled    old  miser, 

our  friend; 
May  he  send  us  his  bills  to  the  century's  end, 


136 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


And  lend  us  the  moments  no  sorrow  alloys, 
Till  he  squares  his  account  with  the  last  of 
"The  Boys." 


FOR  CLASS   MEETING 

1875 

IT  is  a  pity  and  a  shame  —  alas  !  alas  !  I 

know  it  is, 
To  tread  the  trodden  grapes  again,  but  so 

it  has  been,  so  it  is; 
The   purple   vintage    long    is    past,    with 

ripened  clusters  bursting  so 
They  filled  the  wine-vats  to  the  brim, — 

't  is  strange  you  will  be  thirsting  so  ! 

Too   well  our  faithful  memory  tells  what 

might  be  rhymed  or  sung  about, 
For  all  have  sighed  and  some  have  wept 

since  last  year's  snows  were  flung 

about; 
The  beacon  flame  that  fired  the  sky,  the 

modest  ray  that  gladdened  us, 
A  little  breath  has  quenched  their  light,  and 

deepening  shades  have  saddened  us. 

No  more  our  brother's  life  is  ours  for  cheer 
ing  or  for  grieving  us, 

One  only  sadness  they  bequeathed,  the  sor 
row  of  their  leaving  us; 

Farewell !  Farewell !  —  I  turn  the  leaf  I 
read  my  chiming  measure  in; 

Who  knows  but  something  still  is  there  a 
friend  may  find  a  pleasure  in  ? 

For  who  can  tell  by  what  he  likes  what  other 

people's  fancies  are  ? 
How  all  men  think  the  best  of  wives  their 

own  particular  Nancies  are  ? 
If  what  I  sing  you  brings  a  smile,  you  will 

not  stop  to  catechise, 
Nor   read    Bosotia's    lumbering   line    with 

nicely  scanning  Attic  eyes. 

Perhaps  the  alabaster  box  that  Mary  broke 
so  lovingly, 

While  Judas  looked  so  sternly  on,  the  Mas 
ter  so  approvingly, 

Was  not  so  fairly  wrought  as  those  that 
Pilate's  wife  and  daughters  had, 

Or  many  a  dame  of  Judah's  line  that  drank 
of  Jordan's  waters  had. 


Perhaps  the  balm  that  cost  so  dear,  as  some 

remarked  officiously, 
The  precious  nard  that  filled  the  room  with 

fragrance  so  deliciously, 
So  oft  recalled  in  storied  page  and  sung  in 

verse  melodious, 
The  dancing  girl  had  thought  too  cheap,  — 

that  daughter  of  Herodias. 

Where  now  are  all  the  mighty  deeds  that 

Herod  boasted  loudest  of  ? 
Where  now   the  flashing  jewelry  the   te- 

trarch's  wife  was  proudest  of  ? 
Yet  still  to  hear  how  Mary  loved,  all  tribes 

of  men  are  listening, 
And  still  the  sinful  woman's  tears  like  stars 

in  heaven  are  glistening. 

'T  is  not  the  gift  our  hands  have  brought, 

the  love  it  is  we  bring  with  it,  — 
The  minstrel's  lips  may  shape  the  song,  his 

heart  in  tune  must  sing  with  it; 
And  so  we  love  the  simple  lays,  and  wish 

we  might  have  more  of  them, 
Our  poet  brothers  sing  for  us,  —  there  must 

be  half  a  score  of  them. 

It  may  be  that  of  fame  and  name  our  voices 
once  were  emulous,  — 

With  deeper  thoughts,  with  tenderer  throbs 
their  softening  tones  are  tremu 
lous; 

The  dead  seem  listening  as  of  old,  ere 
friendship  was  bereft  of  them; 

The  living  wear  a  kinder  smile,  the  remnant 
that  is  left  of  them. 

Though  on  the  once  mifurrowed  brows  the 

harrow-teeth  of  Time  may  show, 
Though  all  the  strain  of  crippling  years  the 

halting  feet  of  rhyme  may  show, 
We  look  and  hear  with  melting  hearts,  for 

what  we  all  remember  is 
The  morn  of  Spring,  nor  heed  how  chill  the 

sky  of  gray  November  is. 

Thanks  to  the  gracious  powers  above  from 

all  mankind  that  singled  us, 
And  dropped  the  pearl  of  friendship  in  the 

cup  they  kindly  mingled  us, 
And  bound  us  in  a  wreath  of  flowers  with 

hoops  of  steel  knit  under  it;  — 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  chance,  nor  change* 

nor  death  himself  shall  sunder  it  ! 


AD   AMICOS" 


"AD   AMICOS" 

1876 

"  D unique  virent  genua 
Et  decet,  obducta  solvatur  fonte  senectus.'? 

THE  muse  of  boyhood's  fervid  hour 

Grows  tame  as  skies  get  chill  and  hazy; 
Where  once  she  sought  a  passion-flower, 

She  only  hopes  to  find  a  daisy. 
Well,  who  the  changing  world  bewails  ? 

Who  asks  to  have  it  stay  unaltered  ? 
Shall  grown-up  kittens  chase  their  tails  ? 

Shall  colts  be  never  shod  or  haltered  ? 

Are  we  "  The  Boys  "  that  used  to  make 

The  tables  ring  with  noisy  follies  ? 
Whose    deep-lunged    laughter   oft    would 
shake 

The  ceiling  with  its  thunder-volleys  ? 
Are  we  the  youths  with  lips  unshorn, 

At  beauty's  feet  unwrinkled  suitors, 
Whose  memories  reach  tradition's  morn,  — 

The  days  of  prehistoric  tutors  ? 

u  The    Boys"    we    knew, — but    who    are 

these 
Whose  heads  might  serve  for  Plutarch's 

sages, 
Or  Fox's  martyrs,  if  you  please, 

Or  hermits  of  the  dismal  ages  ? 
"  The    Boys  "    we    knew  —  can   these   be 

those  ? 
Their  cheeks  with  morning's  blush  were 

painted ;  — 

Where  are  the  Harrys,  Jims,  and  Joes 
With    whom    we    once    were    well    ac 
quainted  ? 

If  we  are  they,  we  're  not  the  same ; 

If  they  are  we,  why  then  they  're  mask 
ing; 

Do  tell  us,  neighbor  What  's-your-name, 
Who    are    you  ?  —  What 's    the    use    of 

asking  ? 

You  once  were  George,  or  Bill,  or  Ben; 
There's    you,    yourself  —  there's    you, 

that  other  — 

I  know  you  now  —  I  knew  you  then  — 
You  used  to  be  your  younger  brother  ! 

You  both  are  all  our  own  to-day,  — 
But  ah  !  I  hear  a  warning  whisper; 

Yon  roseate  hour  that  flits  away 
Repeats  the  Roman's  sad  paulisper. 


Come   back  !  come    back  !  we  've  need  of 
you 

To  pay  you  for  your  word  of  warning; 
We  '11  bathe  your  wings  in  brighter  dew 

Than  ever  wet  the  lids  of  morning  ! 

Behold  this  cup;  its  mystic  wine 

No  alien's  lip  has  ever  tasted; 
The  blood  of  friendship's  clinging  vine, 

Still  flowing,  flowing,  yet  unwasted: 
Old  Time  forgot  his  running  sand 

And  laid  his  hour-glass  down  to  fill  it, 
And  Death  himself  with  gentle  hand 

Has  touched  the  chalice,  not  to  spill  it. 

Each  bubble  rounding  at  the  brim 

Is  rainbowed  with  its  magic  story; 
The  shining  days  with  age  grown  dim 

Are  dressed  again  in  robes  of  glory; 
In  all  its  freshness  spring  returns 

With  song  of  birds  and  blossoms  tender; 
Once  more  the  torch  of  passion  burns, 

And  youth  is  here  in  all  its  splendor  ! 

Hope  swings  her  anchor  like  a  toy, 

Love  laughs  and  shows  the  silver  arrow 
We  knew  so  well  as  man  and  boy,  — 

The  shaft  that  stings  through  bone  and 

marrow; 
Again  our  kindling  pulses  beat, 

With  tangled  curls  our  fingers  dally, 
And  bygone  beauties  smile  as  sweet 

As  fresh-blown  lilies  of  the  valley. 

O  blessed  hour  !  we  may  forget 

Its    wreaths,  its    rhymes,   its    songs,   its 

laughter, 
But  not  the  loving  eyes  we  met, 

Whose  light  shall  gild  the  dim  hereafter. 
How  every  heart  to  each  grows  warm  ! 

Is  one  in  sunshine's  ray  ?     We  share  it. 
Is  one  in  sorrow's  blinding  storm  ? 

A  look,  a  word,  shall  help  him  bear  it. 

'•'  The  Boys  "  we  were,  "  The  Boys  "  we  '11 

be 

As  long  as  three,  as  two,  arc  creeping ; 
Then  here  's  to  him  —  ah  !  which  is  he  ?  — 

Who  lives  till  all  the  rest  are  sleeping; 
A  life  with  tranquil  comfort  blest, 

The  young  man's  health,  the  rich  man's 

plenty, 

All  earth  can  give  that  earth  has  best, 
And    heaven    at    fourscore    years    and 
twenty, 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


HOW   NOT   TO   SETTLE    IT 
1877 

I    LIKE,  at    times,   to   hear    the   steeples' 

chimes 
With   sober   thoughts  impressively  that 

mingle ; 
But  sometimes,  too,  I  rather  like — don't 

you  ?  — 

To  hear  the  music  of   the   sleigh  bells' 
jingle. 

I  like  full  well  the  deep  resounding  swell 
Of  mighty   symphonies  with  chords  in 
woven; 
But   sometimes,  too,    a  song  of   Burns  — 

don't  you  ? 

After  a  solemn  storm-blast  of  Beetho 
ven. 

Good  to  the  heels  the  well-worn   slipper 

feels 
When  the  tired  player  shuffles   off  the 

buskin; 

A  page  of  Hood  may  do  a  fellow  good 
After  a  scolding  from  Carlyle  or  Ruskin. 

Some  works  I  find,  —  say  Watts  upon  the 

Mind,  — 
No  matter  though  at  first  they  seemed 

amusing, 

Not  quite  the  same,  but  just  a  little  tame 
After  some  five  or  six  times'  reperusing. 

So,  too,  at  times  when  melancholy  rhymes 
Or  solemn  speeches  sober  down  a  dinner, 
I  've  seen  it 's  true,  quite  often,  —  have  n't 

you?  — 

The    best-fed   guests   perceptibly   grow 
thinner. 

Better    some    jest    (in   proper   terms   ex 
pressed) 

Or  story  (strictly  moral)  even  if  musty, 
Or  song  we  sung  when  these  old  throats 

were  young,  — 

Something  to  keep  our  souls  from  get 
ting  rusty. 

The  poorest  scrap  from  memory's  ragged 

lap 

Comes    like  an   heirloom   from  a   dear 
dead  mother  — 


Hush  !  there  's  a  tear  that  has  no  business 

here, 

A  half-formed  sigh  that  ere  its  birth  we 
smother. 

We  cry,  we  laugh;  ah,  life  is  half  and  half, 
Now  bright   and   joyous   as   a   song   of 

Herrick's, 
Then   chill   and   bare    as    funeral-minded 

Blair; 
As  fickle  as  a  female  in  hysterics. 

If  I  could  make  you  cry  I  would  n't  try ; 
If  you   have  hidden  smiles  I  'd  like  to 

find  them, 
And   that   although,   as   well   I   ought   to 

know, 

The  lips  of  laughter  have  a  skull  behind 
them. 

Yet  when  I  think  we  majr  be  on  the  brink 
Of  having  Freedom's  banner  to  dispose 

of, 
All    crimson  -  luted,    because    the    Nation 

would 

Insist  on  cutting  its  own  precious  nose 
off, 

I  feel  indeed  as  if  we  rather  need 

A  sermon  such  as  preachers  tie  a  text 

on. 

If  Freedom  dies  because  a  ballot  lies, 
She  earns  her  grave ;   't  is  time  to  call  the 
sexton  ! 

But  if  a  fight  can  make  the  matter  right, 
Here  are  we,  classmates,  thirty  men  of 

mettle; 
We  're  strong  and  tough,  we  Ve  lived  nigh 

long  enough,  — 
What  if  the  Nation  gave  it  us  to  settle  ? 

The  tale  would  read  like  that  illustrious 

deed 
When   Curtius   took    the  leap   the   gap 

that  filled  in, 
Thus:    "Fivescore  years,  good  friends,  as 

it  appears, 

At  last  this  people  split  on  Hayes  and 
Tilden. 

"  One  half  cried,  '  See  !  the  choice  is  S.  J. 

T.  !' 

And  one  half  swore  as  stoutly  it  was  t' 
other; 


HOW   NOT   TO    SETTLE   IT 


Both  drew  the  knife  to  save  the  Nation's 

life 
By  wholesale  vivisection  of  each  other. 

"Then    rose   in    mass    that    monumental 

Class,  — 
'  Hold  !    hold  !  '    they  cried,    '  give   us, 

give  us  the  daggers  !  ' 
'Content!    content!'    exclaimed  with  one 

consent 

The  gaunt  ex-rebels  and  the  carpet-bag 
gers. 

"  Fifteen  each  side,  the  combatants  divide, 
So  nicely  balanced  are  their  predilections; 

And  first  of  all  a  tear-drop  each  lets  fall, 
A  tribute  to  their  obsolete  affections. 

"  Man  facing  man,  the  sanguine  strife  be 
gan, 
Jack,  Jim  and  Joe    against  Tom,  Dick 

and  Harry, 
Each    several   pair     its   own     account     to 

square, 
Till  both  were  down  or   one   stood  ,soli- 


"And  the  great  fight  raged  furious  all  the 

night 

Till  every  integer  was  made  a  fraction; 
Reader,  wouldst  know  what  history  has  to 

show 
As  net  result  of  the  above  transaction  ? 

"Whole  coat-tails,  four  ;  stray   fragments, 

several  score; 

A  heap  of  spectacles  ;  a  deaf  man's  trum 
pet; 

Six  lawyers'  briefs  ;  seven  pocket-handker 
chiefs; 

Twelve  canes  wherewith  the  owners  used 
to  stump  it; 

"  Odd  rubber-shoes;  old  gloves  of  different 

hues; 
Tax-bills,  —  unpaid,  —  and  several  empty 

purses ; 
And,  saved  from  harm  by  some  protecting 

charm, 

A  printed   page  with  Smith's   immortal 
verses ; 

"  Trifles  that  claim  no  very  special  name,  — 
Some  useful,  others  chiefly  ornamental; 


Pins,  buttons,  rings,  and  other  trivial  things, 
With  various  wrecks,  capillary  and  dental. 

"  Also,  one  flag,  —  't  was  nothing  but  a  rag, 

And  what  device  it  bore  it  little  matters; 

Red,  white,  and  blue,  but  rent  all  through 

and  through, 

'  Union  forever '  torn  to  shreds  and  tat 
ters. 

"  They  fought  so  well  not  one  was  left  to 

tell 
Which  got  the  largest  share  of  cuts  and 

slashes; 
When  heroes  meet,  both  sides  are  bound  to 

beat ; 

They   telescoped   like    cars    in   railroad 
smashes. 

"  So  the  great  split  that  baffled  human  wit 
And  might  have  cost  the  lives  of  twenty 
millions, 

As  all  may  see  that  know  the  rule  of  three, 
Was  settled  just  as  well  by  these  civilians. 

"  As  well.     Just  so.     Not  worse,  not  better. 

Xo, 
Xext    morning   found    the    Nation   still 

divided; 

Since  all  were  slain,  the  inference  is  plain 
They  left  the  point  they  fought  for  un 
decided." 


If  not  quite  true,  as  I  have  told  it  you,  — 

This  tale  of  mutual  extermination, 
To  minds  perplexed  with  threats  of  what 

comes  next, 

Perhaps  may   furnish  food    for  contem 
plation. 

To  cut  men's  throats  to  help  them  count 

their  votes 

Is  asinine  —  nay,  worse  —  ascidian  folly  ; 
Blindness  like  that  would  scare  the  mole 

and  bat, 

And  make  the  liveliest  monkey  melan 
choly. 

I  say  once  more,  as  I  have  said  before, 
If  voting  for  our  Tildens  and  our  Hayeses 

Means  only  fight,  then,  Liberty,  good  night  ! 
Pack  up  your  ballot-box  and  go  to  blazes  ! 


140 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


Unfurl  your  blood-red  flags,  you  murderous 

hags, 

You petroleuses  of  Paris,  fierce  and  foamy; 
We  '11  sell  our  stock  in  Plymouth's  blasted 

rock, 

Pull  up  our  stakes  and  migrate  to  Daho 
mey  ! 


THE  LAST  SURVIVOR 
1878 

YES  !  the  vacant  chairs  tell  sadly  we  are 

going,  going  fast, 
And  the  thought  comes  strangely  o'er  me, 

who  will  live  to  be  the  last  ? 
When   the   twentieth   century's   sunbeams 

climb  the  far-off  eastern  hill, 
With  his  ninety  winters  burdened,  will  he 

greet  the  morning  still  ? 

Will  he   stand  with   Harvard's   nurslings 

when  they  hear  their  mother's  call 
And  the  old  and  young  are  gathered  in  the 

many  alcoved  hall  ? 
Will  he  answer  to  the  summons  when  they 

range  themselves  in  line 
And  the  young  mustachioed  marshal  calls 

out  «  Class  of  '29  "  ? 

Methinks  I  see  the  column  as  its  lengthened 
ranks  appear 

In  the  sunshine  of  the  morrow  of  the  nine 
teen  hundredth  year  ; 

Through  the  yard  't  is  creeping,  winding, 
by  the  walls  of  dusky  red,  — 

What  shape  is  that  which  totters  at  the  long- 
procession's  head  ? 

Who  knows  this  ancient  graduate  of  four 
score  years  and  ten,  — 

What  place  he  held,  what  name  he  bore 
among  the  sons  of  men  ? 

So  speeds  the  curious  question;  its  answer 
travels  slow; 

" '  T  is  the  last  of  sixty  classmates  of 
seventy  years  ago." 

His   figure   shows   but   dimly,  his   face    I 

scarce  can  see,  — 
There 's  something  that  reminds  me,  —  it 

looks  like  —  is  it  he  ? 


He  ?  Who  ?  No  voice  may  whisper  what 
wrinkled  brow  shall  claim 

The  wreath  of  stars  that  circles  our  last 
survivor's  name. 

Will  he  be  some  veteran  minstrel,  left  to 

pipe  in  feeble  rhyme 
All  the  stories  and  the  glories  of  our  gay 

and  golden  time  ? 
Or  some  quiet,  voiceless  brother  in  whose 

lonely,  loving  breast 
Fond  memory  broods  in  silence,  like  a  dove 

upon  her  nest  ? 

Will  it  be  some  old  Emeritus,  who  taught 

so  long  ago 
The   boys    that  heard   him    lecture   have 

heads  as  white  as  snow  ? 
Or  a  pious,  painful  preacher,  holding  forth 

from  year  to  year 
Till  his  colleague  got  a  colleague  whom  the 

young  folks  flocked  to  hear  ? 

Will  it  be  a  rich  old  merchant  in  a  square- 
tied  white  cravat, 

Or  selectman  of  a  village  in  a  pre-historic 
hat? 

Will  his  dwelling  be  a  mansion  in  a  marble- 
fronted  row, 

Or  a  homestead  by  a  hillside  where  the 
huckleberries  grow  ? 

I  can  see  our  one  survivor,  sitting  lonely  by 

himself,  — 
All    his   college    text -books    round   him, 

ranged  in  order  on  their  shelf; 
There  are  classic  "  interliners  "  filled  with 

learning's  choicest  pith, 
Each  cum  notis  variorum,  quas  recensuit  doctus 

Smith; 

Physics,  metaphysics,  logic,  mathematics  — 
all  the  lot 

Every  wisdom  -  crammed  octavo  he  has 
mastered  and  forgot, 

With  the  ghosts  of  dead  professors  stand 
ing  guard  beside  them  all; 

And  the  room  is  full  of  shadows  which 
their  lettered  backs  recall. 

How  the  past  spreads  out  in  vision  with  its 
far  receding  train, 

Like  a  long  embroidered  arras  in  the  cham 
bers  of  the  brain, 


THE   ARCHBISHOP   AND    GIL   BLAS 


141 


From  opening   manhood's    morning;    when 

first  we  learned  to  grieve 
To  the  fond  regretful  moments  of  our  sor- 


r-saddeiied 


eve 


What   early   shadows    darkened    our   idle 

summer's  joy 
When  death  snatched  roughly  from  us  that 

lovely  bright-eyed  boy  ! 
The   years    move    swiftly    onwards  ;    the 

deadly  shafts  fall  fast,  — 
Till    all    have    dropped    around    him  —  lo, 

there  he  stands,  —  the  last  ! 

Their  faces  flit  before  him,  some  rosy-lined 

and  fair, 
Some  strong  in  iron  manhood,  some  worn 

with  toil  and  care; 
Their  smiles  no   more  shall  greet  him  on 

cheeks  with  pleasure  flushed  ! 
The  friendly  hands  are  folded,  the  pleasant 

voices  hushed  ! 

My  picture  sets  me  dreaming;  alas  !  and 

can  it  be 
Those  two  familiar  faces   we  never  more 

may  see  ? 
In    every  entering    footfall  I    think    them 

drawing  near, 
With  every  door  that   opens  I  say,  "  At 

last  they  're  here  !  " 

The  willow  bends  unbroken  when    angry 

tempests  blow, 
The    stately    oak   is   levelled    and   all    its 

strength  laid  low  ; 
So  fell  that  tower  of  manhood,  undaunted, 

patient,  strong, 
White  with  the  gathering  snowflakes,  who 

faced  the  storm  so  long. 

And  he,  —  what  subtle  phrases  their  vary 
ing  light  must  blend 

To  paint  as  each  remembers  our  many- 
featured  friend  ! 

His  wit  a  flash  auroral  that  laughed  in 
every  look, 

His  talk  a  sunbeam  broken  on  the  ripples 
of  a  brook, 

Or,  fed  from  thousand  sources,  a  fountain's 

glittering  jet, 
Or  careless  handfuls  scattered  of  diamond 

sparks  unset; 


Ah,  sketch  him,  paint  him,  mould  him  in 
every  shape  you  will, 

He  was  himself —  the  only  —  the  one  tin- 
pictured  still  ! 

Farewell !  our  skies  are  darkened  and  yet 

the  stars  will  shine, 
We  '11  close  our  ranks  together  and  still 

fall  into  line 
Till  one  is  left,  one  only,  to  mourn  for  all 

the  rest; 
And  Heaven  bequeath  their   memories  to 

him  who  loves  us  best ! 


THE   ARCHBISHOP 
BLAS 


AND   GIL 


A    MODERNIZED   VERSION 
1879 

I   DON'T   think    I    feel    much  older;    I  'm 

aware  I  'm  rather  gray, 
But  so  are  many  young  folks;  I  meet  'em 

every  day. 
I  confess  I  'm   more  particular  in  what  I 

eat  and  drink, 
But    one's    taste    improves    with    culture; 

that  is  all  it  means,  I  think. 

Can  you  read  as  once  you  used  to  ?     Well, 

the  printing  is  so  bad, 
Xo  young  folks'  eyes  can  read  it  like  the 

books  that  once  we  had. 
Are  you  quite  as  quick  of  hearing  ?     Please 

to  say  that  once  again. 
Don't  I   use  plain   icords,  your  Reverence  ? 

Yes,  I  often  use  a  cane, 

But  it 's  not  because  I  need  it,  —  no,  I  al 
ways  liked  a  stick; 

And  as  one  might  lean  upon  it,  't  is  as  well 
it  should  be  thick. 

Oh,  I 'm  smart,  I 'm  spry,  I'm  lively, — 
I  can  walk,  yes,  that  I  can, 

On  the  days  I  feel  like  walking,  just  as 
well  as  you,  young  man  ! 

Don't  you  get  a  little  sleepy  after  dinner  every 


Well,  I  doze  a  little,  sometimes,  but  that 
always  was  my  way. 


142 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


Don't  you  cry  a  little  easier  than  some  twenty 

years  ago  ? 
Well,  my  heart  is  very  tender,  but  I  think 

't  was  always  so. 

Don't  you  find  it  sometimes  happens  that  you 
can't  recall  a  name  f 

Yes,  I  know  such  lots  of  people,  —  but  my 
memory  's  not  to  blame. 

What !  You  think  my  memory 's  fail 
ing  !  Why,  it 's  just  as  bright  and 
clear,  — 

I  remember  my  great-grandma !  She  's 
been  dead  these  sixty  year  ! 

Is  your  voice  a  little  trembly  ?     Well,  it  may 

be,  now  and  then, 
But  I  write  as  well  as  ever  with  a  good  old- 

fashioiied  pen  ; 
It's  the  Gillotts  make  the  trouble,  —  not 

at  all  my  finger-ends,  — 
That  is  why  my  hand  looks  shaky  when  I 

sign  for  dividends. 

Don't  you  stoop   a  little,  walking  ?    It 's  a 

way  I  've  always  had, 
I  have  always  been  round-shouldered,  ever 

since  I  was  a  lad. 
Don't  you  hate  to  tie  your  shoe-strings  ?    Yes, 

I  own  it  —  that  is  true. 
Don't  you  tell  old  stories  over  ?    I  am  not 

aware  I  do. 

Don't  you  stay  at  home  of  evenings  ?    Don't 

you  love  a  cushioned  seat 
In  a  corner,  by  the  fireside,  with  your  slippers 

on  your  feet  ? 
Don't  you  wear  warm  fleecy  flannels  ?     Don't 

you  muffle  up  your  throat  ? 
Don't  you  like  to  have  one  help  you  when 

you  're  putting  on  your  coat  ? 

Don't  you  like  old  books  you  've  dogs-eared, 

you  can't  remember  when  ? 
Don't  you  call  it  late  at  nine  o'clock  and  go  to 

bed  at  ten  ? 
How  many  cronies  can  you  count  of  all  you 

used  to  know 
Who  called  you  by  your  Christian  name  some 

fifty  years  ago  f 

How  look  the  prizes  to  you  that  used  to  fire 

your  brain  ? 
You've  reared  your  mound  —  how  high  is  it 

above  the  level  plain  ? 


You  've  drained  the  brimming  golden  cup  that 

made  your  fancy  reel, 
You  've  slept  the  giddy  potion  off',  —  noiv  tell 

us  how  you  feel  I 

You  've  watched  the  harvest  ripening  till  every 

stem  was  cropped, 
You  've  seen  the  rose  of  beauty  fade  till  every 

petal  dropped, 
You've  told  your  thought,  you've  done  your 

task,  you  've  tracked  your  dial  round, 
—  I  backing  down  !     Thank   Heaven,  not 

yet  !  I  'm  hale  and  brisk  and  sound, 

And  good  for  many  a  tussle,  as  you  shall 

live  to  see; 
My  shoes  are  not  quite  ready  yet,  —  don't 

think  you  're  rid  of  me  ! 
Old  Parr  was  in  his  lusty  prime  when  he 

was  older  far, 
And  where  will  you  be  if  I  live  to  beat  old 

Thomas  Parr  ? 

Ah  well,  —  /  know,  —  at  every  age  life  has  a 

certain  charm,  — 
You  're  going  ?     Come,  permit  me,  please,  I 

beg  you  'II  take  my  arm. 
I  take  your  arm  !     Why  take  your  arm  ? 

I  'd  thank  you  to  be  told 
I  'm  old  enough  to  walk  alone,  but  not  so 

very  old  ! 


THE   SHADOWS 

1880 

"  How  many  have  gone  ?  "  was  the  ques 
tion  of  old 
Ere  Time  our  bright  ring  of  its  jewels 

bereft; 
Alas  !  for   too   often    the    death-bell    has 

tolled, 

And  the  question  we  ask  is,  "  How  many 
are  left?" 

Bright  sparkled  the  wine;  there  were  fifty 

that  quaffed; 
For  a  decade  had  slipped  and  had  taken 

but  three. 
How   they  frolicked  and  sung,  how  they 

shouted  and  laughed, 
Like  a   school  full  of   boys  from  their 
benches  set  free  ! 


BENJAMIN   PEIRCE 


143 


There  were  speeches  and  toasts,  there  were 

stories  and  rhymes, 

The  hall  shook  its  sides  with  their  mer 
riment's  noise; 

As  they  talked  and  lived  over  the  college- 
day  times,  — 

No  wonder  they  kept  their  old  name  of 
"  The  Boys  "  ! 

The  seasons  moved  on  in  their  rhythmical 

ilow 
With,  mornings  like  maidens  that  pouted 

or  smiled, 
With  the  bud  and  the  leaf  and  the  fruit 

and  the  snow, 

And  the  year-books  of   Time  in  his  al 
coves  were  piled. 

There  were/br/y  that  gathered  where  fifty 

had  met; 
Some  locks  had  got  silvered,  some  lives 

had  grown  sere, 
But  the  laugh  of  the  laughers  was  lusty  as 

yet, 

And  the  song  of  the  singers  rose  ringing 
and  clear. 

Still   flitted   the   years;  there    were   thirty 

that  came; 
"  The   Boys "  they  were  still,  and  they 

answered  their  call; 
There    were    foreheads    of    care,    but   the 

smiles  were  the  same, 
And  the  chorus  rang  loud  through  the 
garlanded  hall. 

The     hour  -  hand     moved    on,    and    they 

gathered  again ; 
There    were   twenty   that   joined   in   the 

hymn  that  was  sung; 
But  ah  !  for  our  song-bird  we  listened  in 

vain, — 
The  crystalline  tones  like  a  seraph's  that 


How  narrow  the  circle  that  holds  us  to- 


How  many  the  loved  ones  that  greet  us 

no  more, 
As  we  meet  like  the  stragglers  that  come 

from  the  fight, 
Like  the  mariners  flung  from  a  wreck  on 

the  shore  ! 


We  look  through  the  twilight  for  those  we 

have  lost; 
The    stream   rolls   between  us,  and  yet 

they  seem  near; 
Already  outnumbered  by  those  who  have 

crossed, 

Our  band  is  transplanted,  its  home  is  not 
here  ! 

They    smile    on    us    still  —  is    it    only   a 

dream  ?  — 
While  fondly  or  proudly  their  names  we 

recall; 
They     beckon  —  they     come  —  they     are 

crossing  the  stream  — 
Lo  !  the  Shadows  !  the  Shadows  !  room 
—  room  for  them  all  ! 


BENJAMIN    PEIRCE 

ASTROXOMKR,    MATHEMATICIAN 

1809-1880 

1881 

FOR  him  the  Architect  of  all 
Unroofed  our  planet's  starlit  hall; 
Through  voids  unknown  to  worlds  unseen 
His  clearer  vision  rose  serene. 

With  us  on  earth  he  walked  by  day, 
1 1  is  midnight  path  how  far  away  ! 
We  knew  him  not  so  well  who  knew 
The  patient  eyes  his  soul  looked  through; 

For  who  his  untrod  realm  could  share 
Of  us  that  breathe  this  mortal  air, 
Or  camp  in  that  celestial  tent 
Whose  fringes  gild  our  firmament  ? 

How  vast  the  workroom  where  he  brought 
The  viewless  implements  of  thought  ! 
The  wit  how  subtle,  how  profound, 
That  Nature's  tangled  webs  unwound; 

That  through  the  clouded  matrix  saw 
The  crystal  planes  of  shaping  law, 
Through    these    the    sovereign    skill    that 

planned,  — 
The  Father's  care,  the  Master's  hand  ! 

To  him  the  wandering  stars  revealed 
The  secrets  in  their  cradle  sealed: 


144 


POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


The  far-off,  frozen  sphere  that  swings 
Through  ether,  zoned  with  lucid  rings; 

The  orb  that  rolls  in  dim  eclipse 
Wide  wheeling  round  its  long  ellipse,  — 
His  name  Urania  writes  with  these 
And  stamps  it  on  her  Pleiades. 

We  knew  him  not  ?     Ah,  well  we  knew 
The  manly  soul,  so  brave,  so  true, 
The  cheerful  heart  that  conquered  age, 
The  childlike  silver-bearded  sage. 

No  more  his  tireless  thought  explores 
The  azure  sea  with  golden  shores; 
Rest,  wearied  frame  !  the  stars  shall  keep 
A  loving  watch  where  thou  shalt  sleep. 

Farewell !  the  spirit  needs  must  rise, 
So  long  a  tenant  of  the  skies,  — 
Rise  to  that  home  all  worlds  above 
Whose  sun  is  God,  whose  light  is  love. 

IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

1882 

NOT  bed-time  yet  !    The  night-winds  blow, 
The  stars  are  out,  —  full  well  we  know 

The  nurse  is  on  the  stair, 
With  hand  of  ice  and  cheek  of  snow, 
And  frozen  lips  that  whisper  low, 
"Come,  children,  it  is  time  to  go 

My  peaceful  couch  to  share." 

No  years  a  wakeful  heart  can  tire; 
Not  bed-time  yet  !  Come,  stir  the  fire 

And  warm  your  dear  old  hands; 
Kind  Mother  Earth  we  love  so  well 
Has  pleasant  stories  yet  to  tell 
Before  we  hear  the  curfew  bell; 

Still  glow  the  burning  brands. 

Not  bed-time  yet !     We  long  to  know 
What  wonders  time  has  yet  to  show, 

What  unborn  years  shall  bring; 
What  ship  the  Arctic  pole  shall  reach, 
What  lessons  Science  waits  to  teach, 
What  sermons  there  are  left  to  preach, 

What  poems  yet  to  sing. 

What  next  ?  we  ask ;  and  is  it  true 
The  sunshine  falls  on  nothing  new, 
As  Israel's  king  declared  ? 


Was  ocean  ploughed  with  harnessed  fire  ? 
Were  nations  coupled  with  a  wire  ? 
Did  Tarshish  telegraph  to  Tyre  ? 
How  Hiram  would  have  stared  ! 

And  what  if  Sheba's  curious  queen, 
Who  came  to  see,  —  and  to  be  seen,  — 

Or  something  new  to  seek, 
And  swooned,  as  ladies  sometimes  do, 
At  sights    that   thrilled   her  through  and 

through, 
Had  heard,  as  she  was  "  coming  to," 

A  locomotive's  shriek, 

And  seen  a  rushing  railway  train 
As  she  looked  out  along  the  plain 

From  David's  lofty  tower,  — 
A  mile  of  smoke  that  blots  the  sky 
And  blinds  the  eagles  as  they  fly 
Behind  the  cars  that  thunder  by 

A  score  of  leagues  an  hour  ! 

See  to  my  fiat  lux  respond 

This  little  slumbering  fire-tipped  wand,  — 

One  touch,  —  it  bursts  in  flame  ! 
Steal  me  a  portrait  from  the  sun,  — 
One  look,  —  and  lo  !  the  picture  done  ! 
Are  these  old  tricks,  King  Solomon, 

We  lying  moderns  claim  ? 

Could  you  have  spectroscoped  a  star  ? 
If  both  those  mothers  at  your  bar, 

The  cruel  and  the  mild, 
The  young  and  tender,  old  and  tough, 
Had  said,  "  Divide,  —  you  're  right,  though 

rough,"  — 
Did  old  Judea  know  enough 

To  etherize  the  child  ? 

These  births  of  time  our  eyes  have  seen, 
With  but  a  few  brief  years  between; 

What  wonder  if  the  text, 
For  other  ages  doubtless  true, 
For  coming  years  will  never  do,  — 
Whereof  we  all  should  like  a  few, 

If  but  to  see  what  next. 

If  such  things  have  been,  such  may  be ; 
Who  would  not  like  to  live  and  see  — 

If  Heaven  may  so  ordain  — 
What  waifs  undreamed  of,  yet  in  store, 
The  waves  that  roll  forevermore 
On  life's  long  beach  may  cast  ashore 

From  out  the  mist-clad  main  ? 


THE   GIRDLE   OF    FRIENDSHIP 


'45 


Will  Earth  to  pagan  dreams  return 
To  find  from  misery's  painted  urn 

That  all  save  hope  has  flown,  — 
Of  Book  and  Church  and  Priest  bereft, 
The  Rock  of  Ages  vainly  cleft, 
Life's  compass  gone,  its  anchor  left, 

Left,  —  lost,  —  in  depths  unknown  ? 

Shall  Faith  the  trodden  path  pursue 
The  crux  ansata  wearers  knew 

Who  sleep  with  folded  hands, 
Where,  like  a  naked,  lidless  eye, 
The  staring  Nile  rolls  wandering  by 
Those  mountain  slopes  that  climb  the  sky 

Above  the  drifting  sands  ? 

Or  shall  a  nobler  Faith  return, 
Its  fanes  a  purer  gospel  learn, 

With  holier  anthems  ring, 
And  teach  us  that  our  transient  creeds 
Were  but  the  perishable  seeds 
Of  harvests  sown  for  larger  needs, 

That  ripening  years  shall  bring  ? 

Well,  let  the  present  do  its  best, 
We  trust  our  Maker  for  the  rest, 

As  on  our  way  we  plod; 
Our  souls,  full  dressed  in  fleshly  suits, 
Love  air  and  sunshine,  flowers  and  fruits, 
The  daisies  better  than  their  roots 

Beneath  the  grassy  sod. 

Not  bed-time  yet  !   The  full-blown  flower 
Of  all  the  year  —  this  evening  hour  — 

Witli  friendship's  flame  is  bright; 
Life  still  is  sweet,  the  heavens  are  fair, 
Though   fields   are  brown   and  woods  are 

bare, 
And  many  a  joy  is  left  to  share 

Before  we  say  Good-night  ! 

And  when,  our  cheerful  evening  past, 
The  nurse,  long  waiting,  comes  at  last, 

Ere  on  her  lap  we  lie 
In  wearied  nature's  sweet  repose, 
At  peace  with  all  her  waking  foes, 
Our  lips  shall  murmur,  ere  they  close, 

Good-night  !   and  not  Good-by  ! 

A  LOVING-CUP  SONG 

1883 

COME,  heap  the  fagots  !     Ere  we  go 
Again  the  cheerful  hearth  shall  glow; 


We  '11  have  another  blaze,  my  boys  ! 
When   clouds    are    black   and   snows   are 

white, 

Then  Christmas  logs  lend  ruddy  light 
They  stole  from  summer  days,  my  boys, 
They  stole  from  summer  days. 

And  let  the  Loving-Cup  go  round, 

The  Cup  with  blessed  memories  crowned, 

That  flows  whene'er  we  meet,  my  boys; 
Xo  draught  will  hold  a  drop  of  sin 
If  love  is  only  well  stirred  in 

To  keep  it  sound  and  sweet,  my  boys, 
To  keep  it  sound  and  sweet. 

Give  me,  to  pin  upon  my  breast, 
The  blossoms  twain  I  love  the  best, 

A  rosebud  and  a  pink,  my  boys; 
Their  leaves  shall  nestle  next  my  heart, 
Their  perfumed  breath  shall  own  its  part 

In  every  health  we  drink,  my  boys, 
In  every  health  we  drink. 

The  breathing  blossoms  stir  my  blood, 
Methinks  I  see  the  lilacs  bud 

And  hear  the  bluebirds  sing,  my  boys; 
Why  not  ?     Yon  lusty  oak  has  seen 
Full  tenscore  years,  yet  leaflets  green 

Peep  out  with  every  spring,  my  boys, 
Peep  out  with  every  spring. 

Old  Time  his  rusty  scythe  may  whet, 
The  unmowed  grass  is  glowing  yet 

Beneath  the  sheltering  snow,  my  boys; 
And  if  the  crazy  dotard  ask, 
Is  love  worn  out  ?     Is  life  a  task  ? 

We  '11  bravely  answer  No  !  my  boys, 
We  '11  bravely  answer  No  ! 

For  life's  bright  taper  is  the  same 
Love  tipped  of  old  with  rosy  flame 

That  heaven's  own  altar  lent,  my  boys, 
To  glow  in  every  cup  we  fill 
Till  lips  are  mute  and  hearts  are  still, 

Till  life  and  love  are  spent,  my  boys, 
Till  life  and  love  are  spent. 

THE    GIRDLE    OF    FRIENDSHIP 

1884 

SHE  gathered  at  her  slender  waist 
The  beauteous  robe  she  wore; 

Its  folds  a  golden  belt  embraced, 
One  rose-htied  £eni  it  bore. 


146 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


The  girdle  shrank;  its  lessening  round 

Still  kept  the  shining  gem, 
But  now  her  flowing  locks  it  bound, 

A  lustrous  diadem. 

And  narrower  still  the  circlet  grew; 

Behold  !  a  glittering  band, 
Its  roseate  diamond  set  anew, 

Her  neck's  white  column  spanned. 

Suns  rise  and  set;  the  straining  clasp 

The  shortened  links  resist, 
Yet  flashes  in  a  bracelet's  grasp 

The  diamond,  on  her  wrist. 

At  length,  the  round  of  changes  past 
The  thieving  years  could  bring, 

The  jewel,  glittering  to  the  last, 
Still  sparkles  in  a  ring. 

So,  link  by  link,  our  friendships  part, 

So  loosen,  break,  and  fall, 
A  narrowing  zone;  the  loving  heart 

Lives  changeless  through  them  all. 


THE    LYRE    OF   ANACREON 
1885 

THE  minstrel  of  the  classic  lay 

Of  love  and  wine  who  sings 
Still  found  the  fingers  run  astray 

That  touched  the  rebel  strings. 

Of  Cadmus  he  would  fain  have  sung, 

Of  Atreus  and  his  line; 
But  all  the  jocund  echoes  rung 

With  songs  of  love  and  wine. 

Ah,  brothers  !  I  would  fain  have  caught 
Some  fresher  fancy's  gleam ; 

My  truant  accents  find,  unsought, 
The  old  familiar  theme. 

Love,  Love  !  but  not  the  sportive  child 
With  shaft  and  twanging  bow, 

Whose  random  arrows  drove  us  wild 
Some  threescore  years  ago; 

Not  Eros,  with  his  joyous  laugh, 

The  urchin  blind  and  bare, 
But  Love,  with  spectacles  and  staff, 

And  scanty,  silvered  hair. 


Our  heads  with  frosted  locks  are  white, 
Our  roofs  are  thatched  with  snow, 

But  red,  in  chilling  winter's  spite, 
Our  hearts  and  hearthstones  glow. 

Our  old  acquaintance,  Time,  drops  in, 
And  while  the  running  sands 

Their  golden  thread  unheeded  spin, 
He  warms  his  frozen  hands. 

Stay,  winged  hours,  too  swift,  too  sweet, 

And  waft  this  message  o'er 
To  all  we  miss,  from  all  we  meet 

On  life's  fast-crumbling  shore: 

Say  that,  to  old  affection  true, 
We  hug  the  narrowing  chain 

That  binds  our  hearts,  —  alas,  how  few 
The  links  that  yet  remain  ! 

The  fatal  touch  awaits  them  all 
That  turns  the  rocks  to  dust; 

From  year  to  year  they  break  and  fall,  — 
They  break,  but  never  rust. 

Say  if  one  note  of  happier  strain 
This  worn-out  harp  afford,  — 

One  throb  that  trembles,  not  in  vain,  — 
Their  memory  lent  its  chord. 

Say  that  when  Fancy  closed  her  wings 
And  Passion  quenched  his  fire, 

Love,  Love,  still  echoed  from  the  strings 
As  from  Anacreou's  lyre  ! 


THE   OLD   TUNE 

THIRTY-SIXTH   VARIATION 
1886 

THIS  shred  of  song  you  bid  me  bring 
Is  snatched  from  fancy's  embers; 

Ah,  when  the  lips  forget  to  sing, 
The  faithful  heart  remembers  ! 

Too  swift  the  wings  of  envious  Time 
To  wait  for  dallying  phrases, 

Or  woven  strands  of  labored  rhyme 
To  thread  their  cunning  mazes. 

A  word,  a  sigh,  and  lo,  how  plain 
Its  magic  breath  discloses 

Our  life's  long  vista  through  a  lane 
Of  threescore  summers'  roses ! 


THE   BROKEN    CIRCLE 


One  language  years  alone  can  teach : 
Its  roots  are  young-  affections 

That  feel  their  way  to  simplest  speech 
Through  silent  recollections. 

That  tongue  is  ours.     How  few  the  words 
We  need  to  know  a  brother  ! 

As  simple  are  the  notes  of  birds, 
Yet  well  they  know  each  other. 

This  freezing  month  of  ice  and  snow 
That  brings  our  lives  together 

Lends  to  our  year  a  living  glow 
That  warms  its  wintry  weather. 

So  let  ns  meet  as  eve  draws  nigh, 
And  life  matures  and  mellows, 

Till  Nature  whispers  with  a  sigh, 

"  Good-night,  my  dear  old  fellows  !  " 


THE    BROKEN    CIRCLE 

1887 

[What  is  half  a  century  to  a  place  like 
Stonehenge  ?  Nothing  dwarfs  an  individual 
life  like  one  of  these  massive,  almost  unchang 
ing  monuments  of  an  antiquity  which  refuses 
to  be  measured.  .  .  .  The  broken  circle  of 
stones,  some  in  their  original  position,  some 
bending  over  like  old  men,  some  lying-  pros 
trate,  suggested  the  thoughts  which  took  form 
in  the  following'  verses.  Our  Hundred  Dat/f. 
in  Europe,  pp.  110,  111.] 

I  STOOD  on  Sarnm's  treeless  plain, 

The  waste  that  careless  Nature  owns; 

Lone  tenants  of  her  bleak  domain, 

Loomed  huge  and  gray  the  Druid  stones. 

Upheaved  in  many  a  billowy  mound 
The  sea-like,  naked  turf  arose, 

Where    wandering-    flocks    went    nibbling 

round 
The  mingled  graves  of  friends  and  foes. 

The  Briton,  Roman,  Saxon,  Dane, 
This  windy  desert  roamed  in  turn; 

Unmoved  these  mighty  blocks  remain 
Whose  story  none  that  lives  may  learn. 

Erect,  half  buried,  slant  or  prone, 

These  awful  listeners,  blind  and  dumb, 

Hear  the  strange  tongues  of  tribes  unknown, 
As  wave  on  wave  they  go  and  come. 


"  Who  are  you,  giants,  whence  and  why  ?  " 
I  stand  and  ask  in  blank  amaze; 

My  soul  accepts  their  mute  reply: 
"  A  mystery,  as  are  you  that  gaze. 

"  A  silent  Orpheus  wrought  the  charm 
From  riven  rocks  their  spoils  to  bring; 

A  nameless  Titan  lent  his  arm 
To  range  us  in  our  magic  ring. 

"  But  Time  with  still  and  stealthy  stride, 
That  climbs  and  treads  and  levels  all, 

That  bids  the  loosening  keystone  slide, 
And  topples  down  the  crumbling  wall,  — 

"  Time,  that  unbuilds  the  quarried  past, 
Leans  on   these   wrecks    that   press  the 

sod ; 

They  slant,  they  stoop,  they  fall  at  last, 
And  strew  the  turf   their  priests  have 
trod. 

"No  more  our  altar's  wreath  of  smoke 
Floats  up  with  morning's  fragrant  dew; 

The  fires  are  dead,  the  ring  is  broke, 
Where  stood  the  many  stand  the  few." 

My  thoughts  had  wandered  far  away, 
Borne  off  on  Memory's  outspread  wing, 

To  where  in  deepening  twilight  lay 

The  wrecks  of  friendship's  broken  ring. 

Ah  me  !  of  all  our  goodly  train 

How  few  will  find  our  banquet  hall  ! 

Yet  why  with  coward  lips  complain 

That  this  must  lean,  and  that  must  fall  ? 

Cold  is  the  Druid's  altar-stone, 

Its  vanished  tlame  no  more  returns; 

But  ours  no  chilling  damp  has  known,  — 
Unchanged,  unchanging,  still  it  burns. 

So  let  our  broken  circle  stand 

A  wreck,  a  remnant,  yet  the  same, 

While  one  last,  loving,  faithful  hand 
Still  lives  to  feed  its  altar-flame! 


THE  ANGEL-THIEF 

1 888 

TIME  is  a  thief  who  leaves  his  tools  behind 

him ; 
He  comes  by  night,  he  vanishes  at  dawn; 


148 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29 


We  track  his  footsteps,  but  we  never  find 

him : 

Strong  locks  are  broken,  massive  bolts 
are  drawn, 

And  all  around  are  left  the  bars  and  borers, 
The    splitting   wedges   and   the   prying 

keys, 

Such  aids  as  serve  the  soft-shod  vault-ex 
plorers 

To   crack,   wrench    open,    rifle   as  they 
please. 

Ah,  these  are  tools  which  Heaven  in  mercy 

lends  us  ! 
When  gathering  rust  has  clenched  our 

shackles  fast, 

Time  is  the  angel-thief  that  Nature  sends  us 
To   break  the   cramping  fetters  of  our 
past. 

Mourn   as   we   may  for   treasures  he   has 

taken, 

Poor  as  we  feel  of  hoarded  wealth  bereft, 
More   precious  are  those  implements  for 
saken, 

Found   in  the  wreck  his  ruthless  hands 
have  left. 

Some   lever    that    a    casket's    hinge    has 

broken 
Pries  off  a  bolt,  and  lo!    our  souls   are 

free; 

Each  year  some  Open  Sesame  is  spoken, 
And  every  decade  drops  its  master-key. 

So  as  from  year  to  year  we  count  our  treas 
ure, 
Our  loss  seems  less,  and  larger  look  our 

gains; 
Time's    wrongs  repaid  in  more  than  even 

measure,  — 

We  lose  our  jewels,  but  we  break  our 
chains. 


AFTER  THE  CURFEW 
1889 

[The  only  remaining  meeting  of  the  class  at 
Parker's  was  in  1890,  three  present.  There 
was  no  poem.] 

THE  Play  is  over.     While  the  light 
Yet  lingers  in  the  darkening  hall, 


I  come  to  say  a  last  Good-night 
Before  the  final  Exeunt  all. 

We  gathered  once,  a  joyous  throng: 
The  jovial  toasts  went  gayly  round; 

With  jest,  and  laugh,  and  shout,  and  song, 
We  made  the  floors  and  walls  resound. 

We  come  with  feeble  steps  and  slow, 

A  little  band  of  four  or  five, 
Left  from  the  wrecks  of  long  ago, 

Still  pleased  to  find  ourselves  alive. 

Alive  !  How  living,  too,  are  they 
Whose  memories  it  is  ours  to  share! 

Spread  the  long  table's  full  array,  — 
There  sits  a  ghost  in  every  chair! 

One  breathing  form  no  more,  alas  ! 

Amid  our  slender  group  we  see; 
With  him  we  still  remained  "  The  Class,"  - 

Without  his  presence  what  are  we  ? 

The  hand  we  ever  loved  to  clasp,  — 

That  tireless  hand  which  knew  no  rest,  — 

Loosed  from  affection's  clinging  grasp, 
Lies  nerveless  on  the  peaceful  breast. 

The  beaming  eye,  the  cheering  voice, 
That  lent  to  life  a  generous  glow, 

Whose  every  meaning  said  "  Rejoice," 
We  see,  we  hear,  no  more  below. 

The  air  seems  darkened  by  his  loss, 

Earth's  shadowed  features  look  less  fair, 

And  heavier  weighs  the  daily  cross 
His  willing  shoulders  helped  us  bear. 


Why  mourn  that  we,  the  favored  few 
Whom  grasping  Time  so  long  has  spared 

Life's  sweet  illusions  to  pursue, 

The  common  lot  of  age  have  shared? 

In  every  pulse  of  Friendship's  heart 
There  breeds  unfelt  a  throb  of  pain,  — 

One  hour  must  rend  its  links  apart, 

Though  years  on  years  have  forged  the 
chain. 


So  ends  "  The  Boys,"  —  a  lifelong  play. 

We  too  must  hear  the  Prompter's  call 
To  fairer  scenes  and  brighter  day: 

Farewell !     I  let  the  curtain  fall. 


A   PARTING    HEALTH 


And  lapped  in  Orient  seas, 
When  all  their  feathery  palms  toss,  plume- 
like,  in  the  breeze. 

Come  to  me!  —  thou  shalt  feed  on  honeyed 

words, 

Sweeter  than  song  of  birds;  — 
No  wailing  bulbul's  throat, 
No  melting  dulcimer's  melodious  note 
When  o'er  the  midnight  wave  its  murmurs 

float, 

Thy  ravished  sense  might  soothe 
With  flow  so  liquid-soft,  with  strain  so  vel 
vet  smooth. 

Thou  shalt  be  decked  with  jewels,  like  a 

queen, 

Sought  in  those  bowers  of  green 
Where  loop  the  clustered  vines 
And  the  close-clinging  dulcamara  twines,  — 
Pure  pearls  of  Maydew  where  the  moon 
light  shines, 

And  Summer's  fruited  gems, 
And  coral  pendants  shorn  from  Autumn's 
berried  stems. 

Sit  by  me  drifting  on  the  sleepy  waves,  — 
Or  stretched  by  grass-grown  graves, 
Whose  gray,  high-shouldered  stones, 
Carved  with   old  names    Life's  time-worn 

roll  disowns, 
Lean,    lichen-spotted,    o'er    the    crumbled 

bones 

Still  slumbering  where  they  lay 
While    the  sad    Pilgrim  watched  to  scare 
the  wolf  away. 

Spread  o'er  my  couch  thy  visionary  wing  ! 
Still  let  me  dream  and  sing,  — 
Dream  of  that  winding  shore 
Where    scarlet    cardinals  bloom  —  for  me 

no  more,  — 
The  stream  with  heaven  beneath  its  liquid 

floor, 

And  clustering  nenuphars 
Sprinkling   its  mirrored  blue  like  golden- 
chaliced  stars  ! 

Come   while    their   balms  the  linden-blos 
soms  shed  !  — 

Come  while  the  rose  is  red,  — 
While  blue-eyed  Summer  smiles 
On  the  green   ripples   round   yon   sunken 
piles 


Washed  by  the  moon-wave  warm  from  In 
dian  isles, 
And  on  the  sultry  air 

The  chestnuts  spread  their  palms  like  holy 
men  in  prayer  ! 

Oh  for  thy  burning  lips  to  fire  my  brain 
With  thrills  of  wild,  sweet  pain  !  — 
On  life's  autumnal  blast, 
Like    shrivelled    leaves,    youth's    passion 
flowers  are  cast,  — 
Once    loving    thee,   we   love   thee  to   the 

last!  — 

Behold  thy  new-decked  shrine, 
And  hear  once  more  the  voice  that  breathed 
"  Forever  thine  !  " 


A    PARTING    HEALTH 

TO   J.    L.    MOTLEY 

[Upon  his  return  to  England  after  the  publi 
cation  of  the  History  of  the  Dutch  Republic  in 

1857.] 

YES,  we  knew  we  must  lose  him,  —  though 

friendship  may  claim 
To  blend  her  green  leaves  with  the  laurels 

of  fame; 
Though  fondly,  at  parting,  we  call  him  our 

own, 
T  is  the  whisper  of  love  when  the  bugle  has 

blown. 

As  the  rider  that  rests  with  the  spur  on  his 
heel, 

As  the  guardsman  that  sleeps  in  his  corse 
let  of  steel, 

As  the  archer  that  stands  with  his  shaft  on 
the  string, 

He  stoops  from  his  toil  to  the  garland  we 
bring. 

What  pictures  yet  slumber  unborn  in  his 
loom, 

Till  their  warriors  shall  breathe  and  their 
beauties  shall  bloom, 

While  the  tapestry  lengthens  the  life-glow 
ing  dyes 

That  caught  from  our  sunsets  the  stain  of 
their  skies  ! 

In  the  alcoves  of  death,  in  the  charnels  of 
time, 


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Where  flit  the  gaunt  spectres  of  passion  and 
crime, 

There  are  triumphs  untold,  there  are  mar 
tyrs  unsung, 

There  are  heroes  yet  silent  to  speak  with 
his  tongue  ! 

Let  us  hear  the  proud  story  which  time  has 

bequeathed 
From  lips  that  are  warm  with  the  freedom 

they  breathed  ! 
Let  him  summon  its  tyrants,  and  tell  us 

their  doom, 
Though  he  sweep  the  black  past  like  Van 

Tromp  with  his  broom  ! 


The  dream  flashes  by,  for  the  west-winds 

awake 
On  pampas,  on  prairie,  o'er  mountain  and 

lake, 
To  bathe  the  swift  bark,  like  a  sea-girdled 

shrine, 
With  incense  they  stole  from  the  rose  and 

the  pine. 

So  fill  a  bright  cup  with  the  sunlight  that 
gushed 

When  the  dead  summer's  jewels  were  tram 
pled  and  crushed: 

THE  TRUE  KNIGHT  OF  LEARNING,  —  the 
world  holds  him  dear,  — 

Love  bless  him,  Joy  crown  him,  God  speed 
his  career ! 


WHAT   WE   ALL  THINK 

I  think  few  persons  have  a  greater  disgust 
for  plagiarism  than  myself.  If  I  had  even  sus 
pected  that  the  idea  in  question  was  borrowed, 
I  should  have  disclaimed  originality,  or  men 
tioned  the  coincidence,  as  I  once  did  in  a  case 
where  I  had  happened  to  hit  on  an  idea  of 
Swift's.  —  But  what  shall  I  do  with  these  verses 
I  was  going-  to  read  you  ?  I  am  afraid  that 
half  mankind  would  accuse  me  of  stealing'  their 
thoughts,  if  I  printed  them.  I  am  convinced 
that  several  of  you,  especially  if  you  are  g-etting1 
a  little  on  in  life,  will  recognize  some  of  these 
sentiments  as  having  passed  through  your  con 
sciousness  at  some  time.  I  can't  help  it,  —  it 
is  too  late  now.  The  verses  are  written,  and 
you  must  have  them. 

THAT  age  was  older  once  than  now, 
In  spite  of  locks  untimely  shed, 


Or  silvered  on  the  youthful  brow; 
That  babes  make  love  and  children  wed. 

That  sunshine  had  a  heavenly  glow, 

Which  faded  with  those  "  good  old  days  " 

When  winters  came  with  deeper  snow, 
And  autumns  with  a  softer  haze. 

That  —  mother,  sister,  wife,  or  child  — 
The  "best  of  women"  each  has  known. 

Were  school-boys  ever  half  so  wild  ? 

How  young  the  grandpapas  have  grown  ! 

That  but  for  this  our  souls  were  free, 
And  but  for  that  our  lives  were  blest; 

That  in  some  season  yet  to  be 

Our  cares  will  leave  us  time  to  rest. 

Whene'er  we  groan  with  ache  or  pain,  — 
Some  common  ailment  of  the  race,  — 

Though  doctors  think  the  matter  plain,  — 
That  ours  is  "a  peculiar  case." 

That  when  like  babes  with  fingers  burned 
We  count  one  bitter  maxim  more, 

Our  lesson  all  the  world  has  learned, 
And  men  are  wiser  than  before. 

That  when  we  sob  o'er  fancied  woes, 

The  angels  hovering  overhead 
Count  every  pitying  drop  that  flows, 

And  love  us  for  the  tears  we  shed. 

That  when  we  stand  with  tearless  eye 
And  turn  the  beggar  from  our  door 

They  still  approve  us  when  we  sigh, 
"  Ah,  had  I  but  one  thousand  more  ! " 

Though  temples  crowd  the  crumbled  brink 
O'erhanging  truth's  eternal  flow, 

Their  tablets  bold  with  wliat  we  think, 
Their  echoes  dumb  to  ivhat  we  know; 

That  one  unquestioned  text  we  read, 
All  doubt  beyond,  all  fear  above, 

Nor  crackling  pile  nor  cursing  creed 
Can  burn  or  blot  it:  GOD  is  LOVE  ! 


SPRING   HAS    COME 

INTRA   MUROS 

THE  sunbeams,  lost  for  half  a  year, 

Slant   through  my  pane  their   morning 
rays; 


PROLOGUE 


For  dry  northwesters  cold  and  clear, 
The  east  blows  in  its  thin  blue  haze. 

And  first  the  snowdrop's  bells  are  seen, 
Then  close  against  the  sheltering-  wall 

The  tulip's  horn  of  dusky  green, 
The  peony's  dark  unfolding  ball. 

The  golden-chaliced  crocus  burns; 

The  long  narcissus-blades  appear; 
The  cone-beaked  hyacinth  returns 

To  light  her  blue-flamed  chandelier. 

The  willow's  whistling  lashes,  wrung 
By  the  wild  winds  of  gusty  March, 

With  sallow  leaflets  lightly  strung, 
Are  swaying  by  the  tufted  larch. 

The  elms  have  robed  their  slender  spray 
With  full-blown  flower  and  embryo  leaf; 

Wide  o'er  the  clasping  arch  of  day 
Soars  like  a  cloud  their  hoary  chief. 

See  the  proud  tulip's  flaunting  cup, 
That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour,  — 

Behold  it  withering,  —  then  look  up, — 
How  meek  the  forest  monarch's  flower  ! 

When  wake  the  violets,  Winter  dies; 

When    sprout    the    elm-buds,    Spring    is 

near; 
When  lilacs  blossom,  Summer  cries, 

"  Bud,  little  roses  !     Spring  is  here  !  " 

The  windows  blush  with  fresh  bouquets, 
Cut  with  their  May  dew  on  the  lips; 

The  radish  all  its  bloom  displays, 
Pink  as  Aurora's  finger-tips. 

Xor  less  the  flood  of  light  that  showers 
On  beauty's  changed  corolla-shades,  — 

The  walks  are  gay  as  bridal  bowers 
With  rows  of  many-petalled  maids. 

The  scarlet  shell-fish  click  and  clash 
In  the  blue  barrow  where  they  slide; 

The  horseman,  proud  of  streak  and  splash, 
Creeps  homeward  from  his  morning  ride. 

Here  comes  the  dealer's  awkward  string, 
With  neck  in  rope  and  tail  in  knot,  — 

Hough  colts,  with  careless  country-swing, 
In  lazy  walk  or  slouching  trot. 


Wild  filly  from  the  mountain-side, 

Doomed  to  the  close  and  chafing  thills. 

Lend  me  thy  long,  untiring  stride 
To  seek  with  thee  thy  western  hills  ! 

I  hear  the  whispering  voice  of  Spring, 
The  thrush's  trill,  the  robin's  cry, 

Like  some  poor  bird  with  prisoned  wing 
That  sits  and  sings,  but  longs  to  fly. 

Oh  for  one  spot  of  living  green,  — 

One  little  spot  where  leaves  can  grow,  - 

To  love  nnblamed,  to  walk  unseen, 
To  dream  above,  to  sleep  below  ! 


PROLOGUE 

Of  course  I  wrote  the  prologue  I  was  asked 
to  write.  I  did  not  see  the  play,  though.  I 
knew  there  was  a  young  lady  in  it,  and  that 
somebody  was  in  love  with  her,  and  she  was  in 
love  with  him,  and  somebody  (an  old  tutor,  I 
believe)  wanted  to  interfere,  and.  very  natur 
ally,  the  young  lady  was  too  sharp  for  him. 
The  play  of  course  ends  charmingly ;  there  is 
a  general  reconciliation,  and  all  concerned  form 
a  line  and  take  each  other's  hands,  as  people 
always  do  after  they  have  made  up  their  quar 
rels, —  and  then  the  curtain  falls,  —  if  it  does 
not  stick,  as  it  commonly  does  at  private  theat 
rical  exhibitions,  in  which  case  a  hoy  is  detailed 
to  pull  it  down,  which  he  does,  blushing  vio 
lently. 

Xow,  then,  for  my  prologue.  I  am  not  going 
to  change  my  caesuras  and  cadences  for  any 
body  ;  so  if  you  do  not  like  the  heroic,  or  iam 
bic  trimeter  brachycatalectic,  you  had  better 
not  wait  to  hear  it. 

A  PROLOGUE  ?     Well,  of  course  the  ladies 

know,  — 
I  have  my  doubts.     Xo  matter, — here  we 

go  ! 
What  is   a    Prologue  ?      Let    our    Tutor 

teach : 
Pro    means    beforehand;    logos   stands    for 

speech. 
'T  is    like    the    harper's    prelude    on    the 

strings, 

The  prima  donna's  courtesy  ere  she  sings ; 
Prologues  in  metre  arc  to  other  pros 
As  worsted  stockings  are  to  engine-hose. 
"  The  world  's  a  stage,"  —  as  Shakespeare 

said,  one  day; 
The  stage  a  world  —  was  what  he  meant 

to  say. 


154     FROM   THE   AUTOCRAT   OF  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


The   outside   world  's   a  blunder,   that   is 

clear; 

The  real  world  that  Nature  meant  is  here. 
Here  every  foundling  finds  its  lost  mamma; 
Each  rogue,  repentant,  melts  his  stern  papa; 
Misers  relent,  the  spendthrift's  debts  are 

paid, 

The  cheats  are  taken  in  the  traps  they  laid ; 
One  after  one  the  troubles  all  are  past 
Till  the  fifth  act  comes  right  side  up  at 

last, 
When  the  young  couple,  old  folks,  rogues, 

and  all, 

Join  hands,  so  happy  at  the  curtain's  fall. 
Here  suffering  virtue  ever  finds  relief, 
And  black-browed  ruffians  always  come  to 

grief. 
When    the    lorn    damsel,   with  a  frantic 

screech, 

And  cheeks  as  hueless  as  a  brandy-peach, 
Cries,  "  Help,  kyind  Heaven  ! "  and  drops 

upon  her  knees 

On  the  green  —  baize, — beneath  the  (can 
vas)  trees,  — 

See  to  her  side  avenging  Valor  fly:  — 
"  Ha  !  Villain  !  Draw  !     Now,  Terraitorr, 

yield  or  die  !  " 

When  the  poor  hero  flounders  in  despair, 
Some  dear  lost  uncle  turns  up  millionuaire, 
Clasps  the  young  scapegrace  with  paternal 

joy, 
Sobs  on  his  neck,  "  My  boy  !    MY  BOY  !  ! 

MY  BOY!  !!"' 

Ours,  then,  sweet  friends,  the  real  world 

to-night, 

Of  love  that  conquers  in  disaster's  spite. 
Ladies,  attend  !     While  woeful  cares  and 

doubt 

Wrong  the  soft  passion  in  the  world  with 
out, 
Though    fortune   scowl,   though   prudence 

interfere, 
One   thing  is   certain:  Love  will  triumph 

here  ! 

Lords  of  creation,  whom  your  ladies  rule,  — 
The   world's  great  masters,  when  you  're 

out  of  school,  — 

Learn  the  brief  moral  of  our  evening's  play: 
Man   has   his  will,  —  but   woman  has  her 

way  ! 
While  man's  dull  spirit  toils  in  smoke  and 

fire, 
Woman's  swift  instinct  threads  the  electric 

wire,  — 


The  magic  bracelet  stretched  beneath  the 

waves 
Beats    the   black   giant   with   his  score  of 

slaves. 
All  earthly  powers  confess  your  sovereign 

art 

But  that  one  rebel,  —  woman's  wilful  heart. 
All  foes  you  master,  but  a  woman's  wit 
Lets   daylight  through  you  ere  you  know 

you  're  hit. 

So,  just  to  picture  what  her  art  can  do, 
Hear  an  old  story,  made  as  good  as  new. 

Rudolph,  professor  of  the  headsman's  trade, 
Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and  blade. 
One  day  a  prisoner  Justice  had  to  kill 
Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist's  skill. 
Bare-armed,     swart-visaged,     gaunt,    and 

shaggy-browed, 
Rudolph    the    headsman    rose    above   the 

crowd. 

His  falchion  lighted  with  a  sudden  gleam, 
As  the  pike's  armor  flashes  in  the  stream. 
He  sheathed  his  blade;  he  turned  as  if  to 

g°; 

The  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  the  blow. 

"  Why  strikest  not  ?  Perform  thy  mur 
derous  act," 

The  prisoner  said.  (His  voice  was  slightly 
cracked.) 

"  Friend,  I  have  struck,"  the  artist  straight 
replied; 

"  Wait  but  one  moment,  and  yourself  de 
cide." 

He  held  his  snuff-box,  —  "  Now  then,  if 
you  please  !  " 

The  prisoner  sniffed,  and,  with  a  crashing 
sneeze, 

Off  his  head  tumbled,  —  bowled  along  the 
floor,  — 

Bounced  down  the  steps ;  —  the  prisoner 
said  no  more  ! 

Woman  !  thy  falchion  is  a  glittering  eye; 

If  death  lurk  in  it,  oh  how  sweet  to  die  ! 

Thou  takest  hearts  as  Rudolph  took  the 
head ; 

We  die  with  love,  and  never  dream  we  're 
dead  ! 


LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS 

I  should  have  felt  more  nervous  about  the 
late  comet,  if  I  had  thought  the  world  was 
ripe.  But  it  is  very  green  yet,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken;  and  besides,  there  is  a  great  deal 


A   GOOD   TIME   GOING! 


of  coal  to  use  up,  which  I  cannot  bring'  myself 
to  think  was  made  for  nothing'.  If  certain 
thing's,  which  seem  to  me  essential  to  a  millen 
nium,  had  come  to  pass.  I  should  have  been 
frightened  ;  but  they  have  n't. 

WHEN  legislators  keep  the  law, 

When  "banks  dispense    with   bolts    and 

locks, 

When  berries  —  whortle,  rasp,  and  straw  — 
Grow    bigger    downwards    through    the 
box,  — 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right,  — 

When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 

Whose  window  hath  the  broadest  light,  — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 
And  party  leaders  all  they  mean,  — 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 
From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean,  — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give, 
And  doctors  give  what  they  would  take, — 

When  city  fathers  eat  to  live, 

Save    when    they    fast    for    conscience' 
sake,  — 

When  one  that  hath  a  horse  on  sale 
Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof, 

Without  a  lie  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof,  — 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 

Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special  care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair,  — 

When  Cuba's  weeds  have  quite  forgot 

The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 
And  claret-bottles  harbor  not 

Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist,  — 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal, 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before,  — 

When  the  first  locomotive's  wheel 

Rolls     through     the     Hoosac     Tunnel's 
bore ; — 

Till  then  let  Gumming  blaze  away, 
And  Miller's  saints  blow  up  the  globe ; 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 
Then  order  your  ascension  robe  ! 


ALBUM  VERSES 

WHEN  Eve  had  led  her  lord  away, 
And  Cain  had  killed  his  brother, 

The  stars  and  flowers,  the  poets  say, 
Agreed  with  one  another 

To  cheat  the  cunning  tempter's  art, 

And  teach  the  race  its  duty, 
By  keeping  on  its  wicked  heart 

Their  eyes  of  light  and  beauty. 

A  million  sleepless  lids,  they  say, 

Will  be  at  least  a  warning; 
And  so  the  flowers  would  watch  by  day, 

The  stars  from  eve  to  morning. 

On  hill  and  prairie,  field  and  lawn, 

Their  dewy  eyes  upturning, 
The   flowers   still    watch   from   reddening 
dawn 

Till  western  skies  are  burning. 

Alas  !  each  hour  of  daylight  tells 

A  tale  of  shame  so  crushing, 
That   some    turn   white    as    sea-bleached 
shells, 

And  some  arc  always  blushing. 

But  when  the  patient  stars  look  down 

On  all  their  light  discovers, 
The  traitor's  smile,  the  murderer's  frown, 

The  lips  of  lying  lovers, 

They  try  to  shut  their  saddening  eyes, 

And  in  the  vain  endeavor 
We  see  them  twinkling  in  the  skies, 

And  so  they  wink  forever. 


A   GOOD    TIME    GOING  ! 
[A  farewell  poem  to  Charles  Mackay.] 

BRAVE  singer  of  the  coming  time, 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  joyous  present, 
Crowned  with  the  noblest  wreath  of  rhyme, 

The  holly-leaf  of  Ayrshire's  peasant, 
Good   by  !    Good     by  !  —  Our    hearts    and 
hands, 

Our  lips  in  honest  Saxon  phrases, 
Cry,  God  be  witli  him,  till  lie  stands 

His  feet  among  the  English  daisies  ! 


156     FROM   THE   AUTOCRAT   OF   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


'T  is  here  we  part;  — for  other  eyes 

The  busy  deck,  the  fluttering  streamer, 
The  dripping  arms  that  plunge  and  rise, 

The  waves  in  foam,  the  ship  in  tremor, 
The  kerchiefs  waving  from  the  pier, 

The  cloudy  pillar  gliding  o'er  him, 
The  deep  blue  desert,  lone  and  drear, 

With   heaven  above   and    home  before 
him  ! 

His  home  !  —  the  Western  giant  smiles, 

And  twirls  the  spotty  globe  to  find  it;  — 
This  little  speck  the  British  Isles  ? 

'T  is  but  a  freckle,  —  never  mind  it ! 
He  laughs,  and  all  his  prairies  roll, 

Each  gurgling  cataract  roars  and  chuck 
les, 
And  ridges  stretched  from  pole  to  pole 

Heave  till  they  crack  their  iron  knuckles  ! 

But  Memory  blushes  at  the  sneer, 

And  Honor  turns  with  frown  defiant, 
And  Freedom,  leaning  on  her  spear, 

Laughs  louder  than  the  laughing  giant: 
"  An  islet  is  a  world,"  she  said, 

"  When  glory  with  its  dust  has  blended, 
And  Britain  keeps  her  noble  dead 

Till  earth  and  seas  and  skies  are  rended  !  " 

Beneath  each  swinging  forest-bough 

Some  arm  as  stout  in  death  reposes,  — 
From   wave-washed  foot  to  heaven-kissed 
brow 

Her  valor's  life-blood  runs  in  roses; 
Nay,  let  our  brothers  of  the  West 

Write  smiling  in  their  florid  pages, 
One  half  her  soil  has  walked  the  rest 

In  poets,  heroes,  martyrs,  sages  ! 

Hugged  in  the  clinging  billow's  clasp, 

From    sea  -  weed     fringe    to    mountain 

heather, 
The  British  oak  with  rooted  grasp 

Her  slender  handful  holds  together;  — 
With  cliffs  of  white  and  bowers  of  green, 

And  Ocean  narrowing  to  caress  her, 
And  hills  and  threaded  streams  between, — 

Our  little  mother  isle,  God  bless  her  ! 

In  earth's  broad  temple  where  we  stand, 
Fanned  by  the  eastern  gales  that  brought 

us, 
We  hold  the  missal  in  our  hand, 

Bright  with  the  lines  our  Mother  taught 
us. 


Where'er  its  blazoned  page  betrays 
The  glistening  links  of  gilded  fetters, 

Behold,  the  half-turned  leaf  displays 
Her  rubric  stained  in  crimson  letters  ! 

Enough  !     To  speed  a  parting  friend 

'Tis  vain  alike  to  speak  and  listen;  — 
Yet  stay,  —  these  feeble  accents  blend 

With  rays  of  light  from  eyes  that  glis 
ten. 
Good  by !  once  more,  —  and  kindly  tell 

In  words   of  peace   the   young   world's 

story,  — 
And  say,  besides,  we  love  too  well 

Our  mothers'  soil,  our  fathers'  glory  ! 


THE  LAST  BLOSSOM 

THOUGH   young  no   more,  we   still  would 
dream 

Of  beauty's  dear  deluding  wiles; 
The  leagues  of  life  to  graybeards  seem 

Shorter  than  boyhood's  lingering  miles. 

Who  knows  a  woman's  wild  caprice  ? 

It  played  with  Goethe's  silvered  hair, 
And  many  a  Holy  Father's  "  niece  " 

Has  softly  smoothed  the  papal  chair. 

When  sixty  bids  us  sigh  in  vain 
To  melt  the  heart  of  sweet  sixteen, 

We  think  upon  those  ladies  twain 

Who  loved  so  well  the  tough  old  Dean. 

We  see  the  Patriarch's  wintry  face, 
The  maid  of  Egypt's  dusky  glow, 

And  dream  that  Youth  and  Age  embrace, 
As  April  violets  fill  with  snow. 

Tranced  in  her  lord's  Olympian  smile 
His  lotus-loving  Memphian  lies,  — 

The  musky  daughter  of  the  Nile, 
With  plaited  hair  and  almond  eyes. 

Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress 
Ere  life's  autumnal  blossoms  fall, 

And  Earth's  brown,  clinging  lips  impress 
The  long  cold  kiss  that  waits  us  all ! 

My  bosom  heaves,  remembering  yet 
The  morning  of  that  blissful  day, 

When  Hose,  the  flower  of  spring,  I  met, 
And  gave  my  raptured  soul  away. 


CONTENTMENT 


Flung  from  her  eyes  of  purest  blue, 
A  lasso,  with  its  leaping  chain, 

Light  as  a  loop  of  larkspurs,  flew 

O'er  sense  and  spirit,  heart  and  brain. 

Thon  com'st  to  cheer  my  waning  age, 
Sweet  vision,  waited  for  so  long  ! 

Dove  that  would  seek  the  poet's  cage 
Lured  by  the  magic  breath  of  song  ! 

She  blushes  !  Ah,  reluctant  maid, 

Love's  drapeau  rouge  the  truth  has  told  ! 

O'er  girlhood's  yielding  barricade 

Floats  the  great  Leveller's  crimson  fold  ! 

Come  to  my  arms  !  —  love  heeds  not  years; 

No  frost  the  bud  of  passion  knows. 
II a  !  what  is  this  my  frenzy  hears  ? 

A  voice  behind  me  uttered,  —  Rose  ! 

Sweet  was  her  smile,  — but  not  for  me; 

Alas  !  when  woman  looks  too  kind, 
Just  turn; your  foolish  head  and  see, — 

Some  youth  is  walking  close  behind  ! 


CONTENTMENT 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below  '' 

Should  you  like  to  hear  what  moderate  wishes 
life  brings  one  to  at  last  '.'  I  used  to  be  very 
ambitious,  —  wasteful,  extravagant,  and  lux 
urious  in  all  my  fancies,  Read  too  much  in 
the  Arabian  JY7///tfs.  Must  have  the  lamp,  — 
could  n't  do  without  the  ring.  Exercise  every 
morning1  on  the  brazen  horse.  Plump  down 
into  castles  as  full  of  little  milk-white  prin 
cesses  as  a  nest  is  of  young'  sparrows.  All 
love  me  dearly  at  once.  —  Charming1  idea  of 
life,  but  too  high-colored  for  the  reality.  1 
have  outg-rown  all  this  ;  my  tastes  have  be 
come  exceedingly  primitive,  —  almost,  perhaps, 
ascetic.  We  carry  happiness  into  our  condi 
tion,  but  must  not  hope  to  find  it  there.  1 
think  you  will  be  willing1  to  hear  some  lines 
which  embody  the  subdued  and  limited  desires 
of  my  maturity. 

LITTLE  I  ask;  my  wants  are  few; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 

That  I  may  call  my  own ;  — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me; 
Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten;  — 


If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.     Amen  ! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice ;  — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land;  — 
Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 

Some    good    bank-stock,    some    note    of 

hand, 
Or  trifling  railroad  share,  — 

I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 

A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 
And  titles  are  but  empty  names; 

I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo,  — 
But  only  near  St.  James  ; 

I  'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 

To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  baubles;  't  is  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things;  — 

One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,  — 
Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 

A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 

Will  do  for  me;  —  I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire; 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear;)  — 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere,  — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 

So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare; 

An  easy  gait  —  two  forty-five  — 
Suits  me ;  I  do  not  care ;  — 

Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 

Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four,  — 

I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone, 
One  Turner,  and  no  more, 

(A  landscape,  — foreground  golden  dirt,  — 

The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few,  —  some  fifty  score 
For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear; 

The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor;  — 
Some  little  luxury  there 

Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam 

And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 


158     FROM   THE   AUTOCRAT   OF  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


Busts,    cameos,   gems,  —  such    things    as 
these, 

Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 
/  value  for  their  power  to  please, 

And  selfish  churls  deride;  — 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 
Two  Meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn, 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ;  — 

Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 
But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 

Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 

I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 
Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch; 

If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 
I  shall  not  miss  them  much,  — 

Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 

Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content  ! 


ESTIVATION 

AN  UNPUBLISHED  POEM,  BY  MY  LATE 
LATIN  TUTOR 

Your  talking  Latin  —  said  I  —  reminds  me 
of  an  odd  trick  of  one  of  my  old  tutors.  He 
read  so  much  of  that  language,  that  his  Eng 
lish  half  turned  into  it.  He  got  caught  in 
town,  one  hot  summer,  in  pretty  close  quarters, 
and  wrote,  or  began  to  write,  a  series  of  city 
pastorals.  Eclogues  he  called  them,  and  meant 
to  have  published  them  by  subscription.  I  re 
member  some  of  his  verses,  if  you  want  to  hear 
them.  — You,  Sir  (addressing  myself  to  the 
divinity-student),  and  all  such  as  have  been 
through  college,  or  what  is  the  same  thing, 
received  an  honorary  degree,  will  understand 
them  without  a  dictionary.  The  old  man  had 
a  great  deal  to  say  about  "  estivation,"  as  he 
called  it,  in  opposition,  as  one  might  say,  to 
hibernation.  Intramural  aestivation,  or  town- 
life  in  summer,  he  would  say,  is  a  peculiar 
form  of  suspended  existence,  or  semi-asphyxia. 
One  wakes  Tip  from  it  about  the  beginning  of 
the  last  week  in  September.  This  is  what  I 
remember  of  his  poem:  — 

IN  candent  ire  the  solar  splendor  flames ; 
The   foles,   languescent,   pend    from   arid 

rames ; 

His  humid  front  the  cive,  anheling,  wipes, 
And  dreams  of  erring  on  veutiferous  ripes. 


How  dulce  to  vive  occult  to  mortal  eyes, 
Dorm  on  the  herb  with  none  to  supervise, 
Carp  the  suave  berries  from  the  crescent 

vine, 
And  bibe  the  flow  from  longicaudate  kine ! 

To  me,  alas  !  no  verdurous  visions  come, 
Save  yon  exiguous  pool's  conferva-scum,  — 
No  concave  vast  repeats  the  tender  hue 
That  laves  my  milk-jug  with  celestial  blue  ! 

Me  wretched  !     Let  me  curr  to   quercine 

shades ! 

Effund  your  albid  hausts,  lactiferous  maids  ! 
Oh,   might   I   vole    to   some   umbrageous 

clump,  — 
Depart,  —  be    off,  —  excede,  —  evade,  — 

erump ! 

THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE 

OR,  THE  WONDERFUL   "  ONE-HOSS   SHAY  " 
A   LOGICAL  STORY 

[The  following  note  was  prefaced  to  the 
poem  when  it  appeared  in  an  illustrated  edi 
tion.] 

'•  The  Wonderful  One-Hoss  Shay"  is  a  per 
fectly  intelligible  conception,  whatever  ma 
terial  difficulties  it  presents.  It  is  conceivable 
that  a  being  of  an  order  superior  to  human 
ity  should  so  understand  the  conditions  of 
matter  that  he  could  construct  a  machine 
which  should  'go  to  pieces,  if  not  into  its  con 
stituent  atoms,  at  a  given  moment  of  the 
future.  The  mind  may  take  a  certain  pleasure 
in  this  picture  of  the  impossible.  The  event 
follows  as  a  logical  consequence  of  the  presup 
posed  condition  of  things. 

There  is  a  practical  lesson  to  be  got  out  of 
the  story.  Observation  shows  us  in  what  point 
any  particular  mechanism  is  most  likely  to 
give  way.  In  a  wagon,  for  instance,  the  weak 
point  is  where  the  axle  enters  the  bub  or  nave. 
When  the  wagon  breaks  down,  three  times  out 
of  four,  I  think,  it  is  at  this  point  that  the 
accident  occurs.  The  workman  should  see  to 
it  that  this  part  should  never  give  way ;  then 
find  the  next  vulnerable  place,  and  so  on,  until 
he  arrives  logically  at  the  perfect  result  at 
tained  by  the  deacon. 

HAVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-boss 

shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 


THE   DEACON'S    MASTERPIECE 


59 


And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it  —  ah,  but  stay, 
I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits, — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 
There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot, — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 
In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 
In   screw,   bolt,    thoroughbrace,  —  lurking 

still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 
And  that 's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
That    a    chaise    breaks    do/rn,  but    does  n't 

wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "  I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "  I  tell  ijeon  ") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'N'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  could  n'  break 

daown: 

"  Fur,'r  said  the  Deacon,  "  't  9s  mighty  plain 
That   the    weakes'    place    inns'    stan'    the 

strain ; 
'N'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  nz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  lie  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,  — 
That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills; 
He  sent  for  laucewood  to  make  the  thills; 
The      crossbars      were      ash,      from       the 

straightest  trees, 
The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like 

cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these; 
The    hubs    of    logs    from    the    "  Settler's 

ellum,"  - 
Last   of    its   timber,  —  they  could  n't  sell 


Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their 

lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips; 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 
Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 
Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  "  put  her  through." 
"There  !  "  said  the  Deacon,  "naow  she'll 

dew  ! " 

Do  !     I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 
Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 
Children  and  grandchildren  —  where  were 

they  ? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED;  —  it  came  and  found 
The     Deacon's    masterpiece     strong     and 

sound. 

Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten;  — 
u  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came;  — 
Running  as  usual;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 
Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 
Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 
In    fact,    there  's    nothing    that    keeps    its 

youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 
(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large; 
Take     it.  —  You  're    welcome.  —  No  extra 

charge.) 

FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER,  —  the   Earthquake- 
day,  — 
There  are   traces  of  age  in  the   one-hoss 

shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 
There  could  n't  be,  —  for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That    there   was  n't    a   chance  for  one   to 

start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the 
thills, 


160     ,FROM   THE   AUTOCRAT   OF   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And    the    whipple-tree    neither    less    nor 

more, 

And  the  back  erossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  ivhole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five  ! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way  ! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
"Huddup!"  said  the  parson. —  Off  went 

they. 
The    parson    was    working    his    Sunday's 

text,  — 

Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 
Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 
First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill,  — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 
At    half   past   nine  by   the   meet'n'-house 

clock,  — 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  ! 
What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground  ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That 's  all  I  say. 

PRELUDE 

[In  introducing  Parson  TurelVs  Legacy,  the 
Autocrat  amused  his  readers  with  an  account 
of  his  friend  the  Professor's  experiments  in 
chloroform.  The  Professor  was  about  to  read 
the  poem,  but  upon  delivering  the  Prelude,  his 
MS.  was  taken  from  him  by  the  Autocrat,  who 
finished  the  reading.] 

I  'M  the  fellah  that  tole  one  day 
The  tale  of  the  won'erful  one-hoss-shay. 
Wan'  to  hear  another  ?     Say. 
—  Funny,  was  n'  it  ?     Made  me  laugh,  — 
I  'm  too  modest,  I  am,  by  half,  — 


Made  me  laugh  's  though  I  sh'd  split,  — 

Calm'  a  fellah  like  fellah's  own  wit  ? 

—  Fellahs  keep  sayin',  —  "Well,  now  that 's 

nice : 

Did  it  once,  but  calm'  do  it  twice."  — 
Don'  you  b'lieve  the'  'z  no  more  fat; 
Lots  in  the  kitch'n  'z  good  'z  that. 
Fus'-rate  throw,  'n'  no  mistake,  — 
Han'  us  the  props  for  another  shake ;  — 
Know  I  '11  try,  '11'  guess  I  '11  win; 
Here  sh'  goes  for  hit  'm  ag'in  ! 

PARSON   TURELL'S    LEGACY 
OR,  THE  PRESIDENT'S  OLD  ARM-CHAIR 

A    MATHEMATICAL   STORY 

FACTS  respecting  an  old  arm-chair. 

At  Cambridge.     Is  kept    in   the    College 

there. 

Seems  but  little  the  worse  for  wear. 
That 's  remarkable  when  I  say 
It  was  old  in  President  Holyoke's  clay. 
(One  of  his  boys,  perhaps  you  know, 
Died,  at  one  hundred,  years  ago.) 
He  took  lodgings  for  rain  or  shine 
Under  green  bed-clothes  in  '69. 

Know  old  Cambridge  ?     Hope  you  do.  — 
Born  there  ?     Don't  say  so  !     I  was,  too. 
(Born  in  a  house  with  a  gambrel-roof,  — 
Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof.  — 
"  Gambrel-?  —  Gambrel  ?  "  —  Let  me  beg 
You  '11  look  at  a  horse's  hinder  leg,  — 
First  great  angle  above  the  hoof,  — 
That 's  the  gambrel ;  hence  gambrel-roof.) 
Nicest  place  that  ever  was  seen,  — 
Colleges  red  and  Common  green, 
Sidewalks  brownish  with  trees  between. 
Sweetest  spot  beneath  the  skies 
When  the  canker-worms  don't  rise,  — 
When  the  dust,  that  sometimes  flies 
Into  your  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes, 
In  a  quiet  slumber  lies,     . 
Not  in  the  shape  of  unbaked  pies 
Such  as  barefoot  children  prize. 

A  kind  of  harbor  it  seems  to  be, 
Facing  the  flow  of  a  boundless  sea. 
Rows  of  gray  old  Tutors  stand 
Ranged  like  rocks  above  the  sand; 
Rolling  beneath  them,  soft  and  green, 
Breaks  the  tide  of  bright  sixteen,  — 
One  wave,  two  waves,  three  waves,  four,  — 
Sliding  up  the  sparkling  floor: 


PARSON    TURELL'S    LEGACY 


161 


Then  it  ebbs  to  flow  no  more, 
Wandering  oft*  from  shore  to  shore 
With  its  freight  of  golden  ore  ! 
Pleasant  place  for  boys  to  play;  — 
Better  keep  your  girls  away; 
Hearts  get  rolled  as  pebbles  do 
Which  countless  fingering  waves  pursue, 
And  every  classic  beach  is  strowu 
With   heart-shaped   pebbles  of    blood-red 
stone, 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there; 
I  'in  talking  about  an  old  arm/chair. 
You've  heard,  no  doubt,  of  PARSON  TU 
RK  LL  ? 

Over  at  Medford  he  used  to  dwell; 
Married  one  of  the  Mathers'  folk; 
Got  with  his  wife  a  chair  of  oak,  — 
Funny  old  chair  with  seat  like  wedge, 
Sharp  behind  and  broad  front  edge,  — 
One  of  the  oddest  of  human  things, 
Turned  all  over  with  knobs  and  rings,  — 
But    heavy,    and    wide,    and     deep,    and 

grand,— 

Fit  for  the  worthies  of  the  land,  — 
Chief  Justice  Sewall  a  cause  to  try  in, 
Or  Cotton  Mather  to  sit  —  and  lie  —  in. 
Parson  Turell  bequeathed  the  same 
To  a  certain  student,  —  SMITH  by  name; 
These  were  the  terms,  as  we  are  told: 
"  Saide   Smith  saide   Chaire    to    have    and 

holde; 

When  he  doth  graduate,  then  to  passe 
To  ye  oldest  Youth  in  y°  Senior  Classe. 
On  payment  of" — (naming  a  certain 

sum)  — 

"  By  him  to  whom  ye  Chaire  shall  come; 
He  to  ye  oldest  Senior  next, 
And  soe  forever," —  (thus  runs  the  text,)  — 
"  But    one    Crown    lesse  than  he  gave   to 

claime, 
That  being  his  Uebte  for  use  of  same." 

Smith  transferred  it  to  one  of  the  BROWNS, 

And  took  his  money,  —  five  silver  crowns. 

Brown  delivered  it  up  to  MOORE, 

Who  paid,  it  is  plain,  not  five,  but  four. 

Moore  made  over  the  chair  to  LEE, 

Who  gave  him  crowns  of  silver  three. 

Lee  conveyed  it  unto  DREW, 

And  now  the  payment,  of  course,  was  two. 

Drew  gave  up  the  chair  to  DUNN,  — 

All  he  got,  as  you  see,  was  one. 

Dunn  released  the  chair  to  HALL, 

And  got  by  the  bargain  no  crown  at  all. 


And  now  it  passed  to  a  second  BROWN, 
Who  took  it  and  likewise  claimed  a  crown. 
When  Brown  conveyed  it  unto  WARE, 
Having  had  one  crown,  to  make  it  fair, 
He  paid  him  two  crowns  to  take  the  chair; 
And  Ware,  being  honest,  (as  all  Wares  be,) 
He  paid  one  POTTER,  who  took  it,  three. 
Four  got  ROBINSON;  five  got  Dix; 
JOHNSON  primus  demanded  six; 
And  so  the  sum  kept  gathering  still 
Till  after  the  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

When  paper  money  became  so  cheap, 
Folks  would  n't  count  it,  but  said  "  a  heap," 
A    certain    RICHARDS,  —  the    books    de 
clare,  — 

(A.  M.  in  'DO  ?     I  've  looked  with  care 
Through  the  Triennial,  —  name  not  there,)  — 
This  person,  Richards,  was  offered  then 
Kightscore  pounds,  but  would  have  ten; 
Nine,  I  think,  was  the  sum  he  took,  — 
Xot  quite  certain,  — but  see  the  book. 
By  and  by  the  wars  were  still, 
But  nothing-  had  altered  the  Parson's  will. 
The  old  arm-chair  was  solid  yet, 
But  saddled  witli  such  a  monstrous  debt  ! 
Things  grew  quite  too  bad  to  bear, 
Paying  such  sums  to  get  rid  of  the  chair  ! 
But  dead  men's  fingers  hold  awful  tight, 
And  there  was  the  will  in  black  and  white, 
Plain  enough  for  a  child  to  spell. 
What  should  be  done  no  man  could  tell, 
For    the    chair   was  a  kind    of    nightmare 

curse, 
And  every  season  but  made  it  worse. 

As  a  last  resort,  to  clear  the  doubt, 

They  got  old  GOVERNOR  HANCOCK  out. 

The  Governor  came  with  his  Lighthorse 
Troop 

And  his  mounted  truckmen,  all  cock-a- 
hoop; 

Halberds  glittered  and  colors  flew, 

French  horns  whinnied  and  trumpets  blew, 

The  yellow  fifes  whistled  between  their 
*  teeth, 

And  the  bumble-bee  bass-drums  boomed 
beneath; 

So  he  rode  with  all  his  band, 

Till  the  President  met  him,  cap  in  hand. 

The  Governor  "  hefted "  the  crowns,  and 
said, — 

"A  will  is  a  will,  and  the  Parson's  dead." 

The  Governor  hefted  the  crowns.  Said 
he,- 


162     FROM   THE   AUTOCRAT   OF  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


"  There  is  your  p'int.     And  here  's  my  fee. 
These  are  the  terms  you  must  fulfil,  — 
On  such  conditions  I  BREAK  THE  WILL  !  " 
The  Governor  mentioned  what  these  should 

be. 

(Just  wait  a  minute  and  then  you'll  see.) 
The  President  prayed.     Then  all  was  still, 
And  the  Governor   rose   and   BROKE   THE 

WILL  ! 
"  About  those  conditions  ?  "   Well,  now  you 

go 

And  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  then  you  '11  know. 
Once  a  year,  on  Commencement  day, 
If  you  '11  only  take  the  pains  to  stay, 
You  '11  see  the  President  in  the  CHAIR, 
Likewise  the  Governor  sitting  there. 
The  President  rises;  both  old  and  young 
May  hear  his  speech  in  a  foreign  tongue, 
The  meaning  whereof,  as  lawyers  swear, 
Is  this :  Can  I  keep  this  old  arm-chair  ? 
And  then  his  Excellency  bows, 
As  much  as  to  say  that  he  allows. 
The  Vice-Gub.  next  is  called  by  name; 
He  bows  like  t'  other,  which  means  the  same. 
And  all  the  officers  round  'em  bow, 
As  much  as  to  say  that  they  allow. 
And  a  lot  of  parchments  about  the  chair 
Are  handed  to  witnesses  then  and  there, 
And  then  the  lawyers  hold  it  clear 
That  the  chair  is  safe  for  another  year. 

God  bless  you,  Gentlemen  !     Learn  to  give 

Money  to  colleges  while  you  live. 

Don't  be  silly  and  think  you  '11  try 

To  bother  the  colleges,  when  you  die, 

With  codicil  this,  and  codicil  that, 

That  Knowledge   may   starve   while  Law 

grows  fat; 
For  there  never  was  pitcher  that  would  n't 

spill, 
And  there  's  always  a  flaw  in  a  donkey's 

will! 


ODE  FOR  A    SOCIAL  MEETING 

WITH  SLIGHT  ALTERATIONS  BY  A  TEE 
TOTALER 

Here  is  a  little  poem  I  sent  a  short  time 
since  to  a  committee  for  a  certain  celebration. 


I  understood  that  it  was  to  be  a  festive  and 
convivial  occasion,  and  ordered  myself  accord-, 
ingly.  It  seems  the  president  of  the  day  was 
what  is  called  a  "  teetotaler.' '  I  received  a 
note  from  him  in  the  following  words,  contain 
ing  the  copy  subjoined,  with  the  emendations 
annexed  to  it. 

"  DEAR,  SIR,  —  Your  poem  gives  good  satis 
faction  to  the  committee.  The  sentiments 
expressed  with  reference  to  liquor  are  not,  how 
ever,  those  generally  entertained  by  this  com 
munity.  I  have  therefore  consulted  the  clergy 
man  of  this  place,  who  has  made  some  slight 
changes,  which  he  thinks  will  remove  all  ob 
jections,  and  keep  the  valuable  portions  of  the 
poem.  Please  to  inform  me  of  your  charge 
for  said  poem.  Our  means  are  limited,  etc., 
etc.,  etc. 

"  Yours  with  respect." 

Here  it  is  with  the  slight  alterations. 

COME  !  fill  a  fresh  bumper,  for  why  should 
we  go 

logwood 

While  the  nootar  still  reddens  our  cups  as 
they  flow  ? 

decoction 

Pour  out  the  -3-ioh  juiooO'  still  bright  with  the 
sun, 

dye-stuff 

Till  o'er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  -rubioo 
shall  run. 

half-ripened  apples 

The    -purplo  gloljod  oluatcro    their  life-dews 
have  bled; 

taste  sugar  of  lead. 

How  sweet  is  the  -breath  of  the  'fragrance* 
thoyohod! 

rank  poisons  wines  !  !  ! 

For  summer's  last  roooo  lie  hid  in  the  -winoo 

stable-boys  smoking 

That    were    garnered    by       maidens  who 

long-nines. 


scowl  howl  scoff 

Then  a  .omilo,  and  a  glass,  and  a  isasfc,  and 


strychnine  and  whiskey,  and  ratsbane  and 

For  all  the  good  wino,  and  wo  'VQ  oomo  o£i 

beer! 


In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

Down,  down  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  all  1 

Long  live  tho  gay-servaat-t-ha-t  laughs  ft 

"ti3"  ft'il  • 


POEMS    FROM   THE   PROFESSOR   AT   THE   BREAKFAST- 
TABLE 


1858-1859 


UNDER  THE  VIOLETS 


HER  hands  are  cold ;  her  face  is  white ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go; 

Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 

That    drinks   the    greenness    from   the 

ground, 
And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her  mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call, 

And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun, 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 
Doubt  not  that  she  .will  heed  them  all. 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  Spring', 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pass, 

Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black, 

The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 
Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies, 


And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise  ! 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below  ? 

Say  only  this  :  A  tender  bud, 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 


HYMN  OF  TRUST 

O  LOVE  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share 
Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear, 

On  Thee  we  cast  each  earth-born  care, 
We  smile  at  pain  while  Thou  art  near  ! 

Though  long  the  weary  way  we  tread, 
And  sorrow  crown  each  lingering  year, 

No  path  we  shun,  no  darkness  dread, 

Our    hearts    still    whispering,  Thou    art 
near  ! 

When  drooping  pleasure  turns  to  grief, 
And  trembling  faith  is  changed  to  fear, 

The  murmuring  wind,  the  quivering  leaf, 
Shall  softly  tell  us,  Thou  art  near  ! 

On  Thee  we  fling  our  burdening  woe, 

O  Love  Divine,  forever  dear, 
Content  to  suffer  while  we  know, 

Living  and  dying,  Thou  art  near  ! 


A  SUN-DAY  HYMN 

LORD  of  all  being  !  throned  afar, 
Thy  glory  flames  from  sun  and  star 
Centre  and  soul  of  every  sphere, 
Yet  to  each  loving  heart  how  near  ! 


163 


164    FROM   THE   PROFESSOR   AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


Sun  of  our  life,  thy  quickening  ray 
Sheds  on  our  path  the  glow  of  day; 
Star  of  our  hope,  thy  softened  light 
Cheers  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 

Our  midnight  is  thy  smile  withdrawn; 
Our  noontide  is  thy  gracious  dawn; 
Our  rainbow  arch  thy  mercy's  sign; 
All,  save  the  clouds  of  sin,  are  thine  ! 

Lord  of  all  life,  below,  above, 

Whose  light  is  truth,  whose  warmth  is  love, 

Before  thy  ever-blazing  throne 

We  ask  no  lustre  of  our  own. 

Grant  us  thy  truth  to  make  us  free, 
And  kindling  hearts  that  burn  for  thee, 
Till  all  thy  living  altars  claim 
One  holy  light,  one  heavenly  flame  ! 


THE  CROOKED  FOOTPATH 

AH,  here  it  is  !  the  sliding  rail 

That  marks  the  old  remembered  spot,  — 
The  gap  that  struck  our  school-boy  trail,  — 

The  crooked  path  across  the  lot. 

It  left  the  road  by  school  and  church, 
A  pencilled  shadow,  nothing  more, 

That  parted  from  the  silver-birch 
And  ended  at  the  farm-house  door. 

No  line  or  compass  traced  its  plan ; 

With  frequent  bends  to  left  or  right, 
In  aimless,  wayward  curves  it  ran, 

But  always  kept  the  door  in  sight. 

The  gabled  porch,  with  woodbine  green,  — 
The  broken  millstone  at  the  sill,  — 

Though  many  a  rood  might  stretch  between, 
The  truant  child  could  see  them  still. 

No  rocks  across  the  pathway  lie,  — 
No  fallen  trunk  is  o'er  it  thrown,  — 

And  yet  it  winds,  we  know  not  why, 
And  turns  as  if  for  tree  or  stone. 

Perhaps  some  lover  trod  the  way 

With  shaking  knees  and  leaping  heart,  — 

And  so  it  often  runs  astray 

With  sinuous  sweep  or  sudden  start. 

Or  one,  perchance,  with  clouded  brain 
From  some  unholy  banquet  reeled,  — 


And  since,  our  devious  steps  maintain 
His  track  across  the  trodden  field. 

Nay,  deem  not  thus,  —  no  earthborn  will 
Could  ever  trace  a  faultless  line; 

Our  truest  steps  are  human  still,  — 
To  walk  unswerving  were  divine  ! 

Truants  from  love,  we  dream  of  wrath;  — 
Oh,  rather  let  us  trust  the  more  ! 

Through  all  the  wanderings  of  the  path 
We  still  can  see  our  Father's  door  ! 


IRIS,  HER   BOOK 

I  PRAY  thee  by  the  soul  of  her  that  bore 

thee, 
By  thine  own  sister's  spirit  I  implore 

thee, 
Deal  gently  with  the  leaves  that  lie  before 

thee  ! 

For  Iris  had  no  mother  to  infold  her, 
Nor  ever  leaned  upon  a  sister's  shoulder, 
Telling  the  twilight  thoughts  that  Nature 
told  her. 

She  had  not  learned  the  mystery  of  awak 
ing 

Those  chorded  keys  that  soothe  a  sorrow's 
aching, 

Giving  the  dumb  heart  voice,  that  else 
were  breaking. 

Yet  lived,  wrought,  suffered.  Lo,  the  pic 
tured  token  ! 

Why  should  her  fleeting  day-dreams  fade 
unspoken, 

Like  daffodils  that  die  with  sheaths  un 
broken  ? 

She  knew  not  love,  yet  lived  in  maiden 
fancies,  — 

Walked  simply  clad,  a  queen  of  high  ro 
mances, 

And  talked  strange  tongues  with  angels  in 
her  trances. 

Twin-souled  she  seemed,  a  twofold  nature 

wearing: 
Sometimes   a  flashing  falcon  in   her   dar- 

ing> 

Then  a  poor  mateless  dove  that  droops  de 
spairing. 


ROBINSON   OF   LEYDEN 


'65 


Questioning  all  things :  Why  her  Lord  had 
sent  her  ? 

What  were  these  torturing  gifts,  and  where 
fore  lent  her  ? 

Scornful  as  spirit  fallen,  its  own  tormentor. 

And  then  all  tears  and  anguish:  Queen  of 
Heaven, 

Sweet  Saints,  and  Thou  by  mortal  sorrows 
riven, 

Save  me!  Oh,  save  me!  Shall  I  die  for 
given  ? 

And  then-     Ah,  God!    But  nay,  it  little 

matters: 
Look  at  the  wasted  seeds  that  autumn 

scatters, 
The  myriad  germs  that  Nature  shapes  and 

shatters  ! 

If  she  had —   Well!   She  longed,  and  knew 

not  wherefore. 
Had  the  world  nothing  she  might  live  to 

care  for  ? 
No  second  self  to  say  her  evening  prayer 

for? 

She  knew  the  marble  shapes  that  set  men 
dreaming, 

Vet  with  her  shoulders  bare  and  tresses 
streaming 

Showed  not  unlovely  to  her  simple  seem 
ing. 

Vain  ?     Let   it   be   so!     Nature    was   her 

teacher. 

What  if  a  lonely  and  unsistered  creature 
Loved   her  own  harmless  gift  of  pleasing 

feature, 

Saying,  unsaddened,  —  This  shall   soon  be 

faded, 
And     double-lined     the     shining      tresses 

braided, 
And  all  the  sunlight  of  the  morning  shaded  ? 

This  her  poor  book  is  full  of  saddest  fol 
lies, 

Of  tearful  smiles  and  laughing  melancholies, 
With    summer    roses    twined   and    wintry 
hollies. 

In  the  strange  crossing  of  uncertain  chances, 
Somewhere,  beneath  some   maiden's  tear- 
dimmed  glances 


May   fall   her   little    book  of  dreams  and 
fancies. 

Sweet  sister  !     Iris,  who  shall  never  name 

thee, 
Trembling   for   fear   her   open  heart  may 

shame  thee, 
Speaks   from   this  vision-haunted  page  to 

claim  thee. 

Spare    her,  I  pray  thee  !     If   the  maid  is 

sleeping, 
Peace  with  her  !  she  has  had  her  hour  of 

weeping. 
Xo  more  !  She  leaves  her  memory  in  thy 

keeping. 


KOBIXSOX  OF  LEYDEX 

HE  sleeps  not  here;  in  hope  and  prayer 
His  wandering  Hock  had  gone  before, 

But  lie,  the  shepherd,  might  not  share 
Their  sorrows  on  the  wintry  shore. 

Before  the  Speed  well's  anchor  swung, 
Ere  yet  the  Mayflower's  sail  was  spread. 

While  round  his  I'eet  the  Pilgrims  flung, 
The  pastor  spake,  and  thus  he  said:  — 

"  Men,  brethren,  sisters,  children  dear  ! 

God  calls  you  hence  from  over  sea; 
Ye  may  not  build  by  Haerlem  Meer, 

Xor  yet  along  the  Zuyder-Zee. 

"  Ye  go  to  bear  the  saving  word 

To  tribes  unnamed  and  shores  untrod; 

Heed  well  the  lessons  ye  have  heard 
From  those  old  teachers  taught  of  God. 

"  Yet  think  not  unto  them  was  lent 
All  light  for  all  the  coming  days, 

And  Heaven's  eternal  wisdom  spent 
In  making  straight  the  ancient  ways; 

"  The  living  fountain  overflows 
For  every  flock,  for  every  lamb, 

Xor  heeds,  though  angry  creeds  oppose 
With  Luther's  dike  or  Calvin's  dam." 

He  spake;  with  lingering,  long  embrace, 
With  tears  of  love  and  partings  fond, 

They  floated  down  the  creeping  Maas, 
Along  the  isle  of  Ysselmond. 


166     FROM   THE   PROFESSOR   AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


They  passed  the  frowning  towers  of  Briel, 
The  "  Hook  of  Holland's  "  shelf  of  sand, 

And  grated  soon  with  lifting  keel 
The  sullen  shores  of  Fatherland. 

No  home  for  these  !  —  too  well  they  knew 
The  mitred  king  behind  the  throne ;  — 

The  sails  were  set,  the  pennons  flew, 

And  westward  ho  !  for  worlds  unknown. 

And  these  were  they  who  gave  us  birth, 
The  Pilgrims  of  the  sunset  wave, 

Who  won  for  us  this  virgin  earth, 
And  freedom  with  the  soil  they  gave. 

The  pastor  slumbers  by  the  Rhine,  — 
In  alien  earth  the  exiles  lie,  — 

Their  nameless  graves  our  holiest  shrine, 
His  words  our  noblest  battle-cry  ! 

Still  cry  them,  and  the  world  shall  hear, 
Ye  dwellers  by  the  storm-swept  sea  ! 

Ye  have  not  built  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  on  the  land-locked  Zuyder-Zee  ! 


ST.  ANTHONY  THE  REFORMER 

HIS   TEMPTATION 

The  Reformers  have  good  heads,  generally. 
Their  faces  are  commonly  serene  enough,  and 
they  are  lambs  in  private  intercourse,  even 
though  their  voices  may  be  like 

"  The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's  shore," 

when  heard  from  the  platform.  Their  greatest 
spiritual  danger  is  from  the  perpetual  flattery 
of  abuse  to  which  they  are  exposed.  These 
lines  are  meant  to  caution  them. 

No  fear  lest  praise  should  make  us  proud  ! 

We  know  how  cheaply  that  is  won; 
The  idle  homage  of  the  crowd 

Is  proof  of  tasks  as  idly  done. 

A  surface-smile  may  pay  the  toil 

That  follows  still  the  conquering  Right, 

With  soft,  white  hands  to  dress  the  spoil 
That  sun-browned  valor  clutched  in  fight. 

Sing  the  sweet  song  of  other  days, 

Serenely  placid,  safely  true, 
And  o'er  the  present's  parching  ways 

The  verse  distils  like  evening  dew. 


But  speak  in  words  of  living  power,  — 
They  fall  like  drops  of  scalding  rain 

That  plashed  before  the  burning  shower 
Swept  o'er  the  cities  of  the  plain  ! 

Then  scowling  Hate  turns  deadly  pale,  — 
Then  Passion's  half-coiled  adders  spring, 

And,  smitten  through  their  leprous  mail, 
Strike  right  and  left  in  hope  to  sting. 

If  thou,  unmoved  by  poisoning  wrath, 
Thy  feet  on  earth,  thy  heart  above, 

Canst  walk  in  peace  thy  kingly  path, 
Unchanged  in  trust,  imchilled  in  love,  — 

Too  kind  for  bitter  words  to  grieve, 
Too  firm  for  clamor  to  dismay, 

When  Faith  forbids  thee  to  believe, 
And  Meekness  calls  to  disobey,  — 

Ah,  then  beware  of  mortal  pride  ! 

The  smiling  pride  that  calmly  scorns 
Those  foolish  fingers,  crimson  dyed 

In  laboring  on  thy  crown  of  thorns  ! 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  PIANO 

IN  the  little  southern  parlor  of  the  house 
you  may  have  seen 

With  the  gambrel-roof,  and  the  gable  look 
ing  westward  to  the  green, 

At  the  side  toward  the  sunset,  with  the 
window  on  its  right, 

Stood  the  London-made  piano  I  am  dream 
ing  of  to-night ! 

Ah  me  !  how  I  remember  the  evening  when 

it  came  ! 
What  a  cry  of  eager  voices,  what  a  group 

of  cheeks  in  flame, 
When  the  wondrous  box  was  opened  that 

had  come  from  over  seas, 
With   its  smell  of  mastic-varnish  and   its 

flash  of  ivory  keys  ! 

Then  the  children  all  grew  fretful  in  the 

restlessness  of  joy, 
For  the  boy  would  push  his  sister,  and  the 

sister  crowd  the  boy, 
Till  the  father  asked  for  quiet  in  his  grave 

paternal  way, 
But  the  mother  hushed   the   tumult   with 

the  words,  "  Now,  Mary,  play." 


DE    SAUTY 


167 


For  the  dear  soul  knew  that  music  was  a 
very  sovereign  balm; 

She  had  sprinkled  it  over  Sorrow  and  seen 
its  brow  grow  calm, 

In  the  days  of  slender  harpsichords  with 
tapping  tinkling  quills, 

Or  carolling  to  her  spinet  with  its  thin  me 
tallic  thrills. 

So    Mary,    the     household    minstrel,    who 

always  loved  to  please, 
Sat    down   to   the   new    "  dementi/'    and 

struck  the  glittering  keys. 
Hushed    were    the    children's   voices,    and 

every  eye  grew  dim, 
As,  floating  from  lip  and  finger,  arose  the 

"  Vesper  Hymn." 

Catharine,  child  of  a  neighbor,  curly  and 
rosy-red, 

(Wedded  since,  and  a  widow,  —  something 
like  ten  years  dead,) 

Hearing  a  gush  of  music  such  as  none  be 
fore, 

Steals  from  her  mother's  chamber  and 
peeps  at  the  open  door. 

Just  as  the  "  Jubilate  ''  in  threaded  whis 
per  dies, 

"  Open  it  !  open  it,  lady  ! "  the  little 
maiden  cries, 

(For  she  thought  't  was  a  singing  creature 
caged  in  a  box  she  heard,) 

"  Open  it  !  open  it,  lady  !  and  let  me  see 
the  bird!" 


MIDSUMMER 

HERE  !  sweep  these  foolish  leaves  away, 
I  will  not  crush  my  brains  to-day  ! 
Look  !  are  the  southern  curtains  drawn  ? 
Fetch  me  a  fan,  and  so  begone  ! 

Xot  that,  —  the  palm-tree's  rustling  leaf 
Brought  from  a  parching  coral-reef  ! 
Its  breath  is  heated;  —  I  would  swing 
The     broad    gray    plumes,  —  the    eagle's 
wing. 

I  hate  these  roses'  feverish  blood  !  — 
Pluck  me  a  half-blown  lily-bud, 
A  long-stemmed  lily  from  the  lake, 
Cold  as  a  coiling  water-snake. 


Rain  me  sweet  odors  on  the  air, 
And  wheel  me  up  my  Indian  chair, 
And  spread  some  book  not  overwise 
Flat  out  before  my  sleepy  eyes. 

Who  knows  it  not  —  this  dead  recoil 
Of  weary  fibres  stretched  with  toil,  — 
The  pulse  that  flutters  faint  and  low 
When  Summer's  seething  breezes  blow  ! 

O  Xature  !  bare  thy  loving  breast, 
And  give  thy  child  one  hour  of  rest,  — 
One  little  hour  to  lie  unseen 
Beneath  thy  scarf  of  leafy  green  ! 

So,  curtained  by  a  singing  pine, 
Its  murmuring  voice  shall  blend  with  mine, 
Till,  lost  in  dreams,  my  faltering  lay 
In  sweeter  music  dies  away. 


DE    SALTY 

AX    KLKCTKO-CIIEMICAL    KCLOGUE 

The  first  messages  received  through  the  sub 
marine  cable  were  sent  by  an  electrical  expert, 
a  mysterious  personage  who  signed  himself  De 
Sauty. 

Professor  Bine-Nose 

PROFESSOR 

TELL  mo,    O  Provincial  !    speak,  Ceruleo- 
Xasal  ! 

Lives     there    one    De    Sauty    extant    now 
among  you, 

Whispering  Boanerges,  son  of  silent  thun 
der, 
Holding  talk  with  nations  ? 

Is  there  a  De  Sauty  ambulant  on  Tellus, 
Bifid-cleft  like  mortals,  dormient  in  night 
cap, 

Having  sight,  smell,  hearing,  food-receiv 
ing  feature 
Three  times  daily  patent  ? 

Breathes    there   such  a   being,  O  Ceruleo- 
Xasal  ? 

Or   is   he    a    my  thus,  —  ancient     word  for 
"  humbug,"  — 

Such  as  Livy  told  about  the  wolf  that  wet- 
nursed 
Romulus  and  Remus  ? 


i68     FROM   THE   PROFESSOR   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


Was  he  born  of  woman,  this  alleged   De 

Sauty  ? 

Or  a  living  product  of  galvanic  action, 
Like  the  acarus  bred  in  Crosse's  flint-solu 
tion  ? 
Speak,  thou  Cyano-Rhinal ! 

BLUE-NOSE 

Many  things  thou  askest,  jackknife-bearing 
stranger, 

Much-conjecturing  mortal,  pork-and- 
treacle-waster  ! 

Pretermit  thy  whittling,  wheel  thine  ear- 
flap  toward  me, 
Thou  shalt  hear  them  answered. 

When  the  charge  galvanic  tingled  through 

the  cable, 

At  the  polar  focus  of  the  wire  electric 
Suddenly    appeared    a    white-faced    man 

among  us: 
Called  himself  «  DE  SAUTY." 

As  the  small  opossum  held  in  pouch  mater 
nal 

Grasps  the  nutrient  organ  whence  the  term 
mammalia, 

So  the  unknown  stranger  held   the   wire 

electric, 
Sucking  in  the  current. 

When  the  current  strengthened,  bloomed 
the  pale-faced  stranger,  — 

Took  no  drink  nor  victual,  yet  grew  fat 
and  rosy,  — 

And  from  time  to  time,  in  sharp  articulation, 
Said,  "All  right  I  DE  SAUTY." 


From  the  lonely  station  passed  the  utter 
ance,  spreading 

Through  the  pines  and  hemlocks   to   the 
groves  of  steeples, 

Till  the  laud  was  filled  with  loud  reverber 
ations 
Of  "All  right!  DE  SAUTY." 

When  the  current  slackened,  drooped  the 

mystic  stranger,  — 
Faded,  faded,  faded,  as  the  stream  grew 

weaker,  — 
Wasted   to  a  shadow,   with  a  hartshorn 

odor 
Of  disintegration. 

Drops  of  deliquescence  glistened    on   his 
forehead, 

Whitened  round  his  feet  the  dust  of  efflo 
rescence, 

Till  one  Monday  morning,  when  the  flow 

suspended, 
There  was  no  De  Sauty. 

Nothing  but  a  cloud  of  elements  organic, 
C.   O.   H.   N.    Ferrum,   Chlor.    Flu.    Sil. 

Potassa, 
Calc.      Sod.      Phosph.      Mag.      Sulphur, 

Maug.  (?)  Alumin.  (?)  Cuprum,  (?) 
Such  as  man  is  made  of. 

Born  of  stream  galvanic,  with  it  he  had 

perished  ! 
There  is  no  DE  SAUTY  now  there  is  no 

current  ! 
Give  us  a  new  cable,  then  again  we  '11  hear 

him 
Cry,  "  All  right !  DE  SAUTY." 


POEMS   FROM   THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 

1871-1872 


HOMESICK   IN    HEAVEN 

Most  people  love  this  world  more  than  they 
are  willing1  to  confess,  and  it  is  hard  to  con 
ceive  ourselves  weaned  from  it  so  as  to  feel  no 
emotion  at  the  thought  of  its  most  sacred  rec 
ollections,  —  even  after  a  sojourn  of  years,  as 
we  should  count  the  lapse  of  earthly  time,  — 
in  the  realm  where,  sooner  or  later,  all  tears 
shall  be  wiped  away.  I  hope,  therefore,  the 
title  of  my  lines  will  not  frighten  those  who 
are  little  accustomed  to  think  of  men  and 
women  as  beings  in  any  state  but  the  present. 


THE   DIVINE    VOICE 

Go   seek   thine    earth-born   sisters,  —  thus 

the  Voice 
That    all    obey,  —  the    sad    and     silent 

three; 
These  only,  while  the  hosts  of  Heaven  re- 


Smile   never;  ask  them  what  their  sor 
rows  be; 

And  when  the  secret  of  their  griefs  they 

tell, 
Look  on  them  with  thy  mild,  half-human 

eyes; 
Say    what    tliou     wast     on    earth;     thou 

knowest  well; 

So    shall    they    cease    from   unavailing- 
sighs. 

THE   ANGEL 

Why      thus,     apart, — the     swift-winged 

herald  spake,  — 

Sit  ye  with  silent  lips  and  unstrung  lyres 
While    the    trisagion's     blending     chords 

awake 

In  shouts  of  joy  from  all  the  heavenly 
choirs  ? 


169 


THE   FIRST    SPIRIT 

Chide  not  thy   sisters, — thus  the  answer 

came;  — 
Children    of    earth,    our    half -weaned 

nature  clings 
To     earth's     fond     memories,      and      her 

whispered  name 

Untunes  our  quivering  lips,  our  saddened 
strings; 

For  there  wre  loved,  and  where  we  love  is 

home, 
Home  that  our  feet  may  leave,  but  not 

our  hearts, 
Though  o'er   us    shine    the    jasper-lighted 

dome:  — 

The  chain   may    lengthen,  but  it  never 
parts  ! 

Sometimes  a   sunlit  sphere   comes   rolling 

by, 

And  then  we  softly  whisper,  —  can  it  l>e  ? 

And  leaning  toward  the  silvery  orb,  we  try 

To  hear  the  music  of  its  murmuring  sea; 

To  catch,  perchance,  some  flashing  glimpse 

of  green, 
Or   breathe   some   wild-wood    fragrance, 

wafted  through 

The  opening  gates  of  pearl,  that  fold  be 
tween 

The  blinding  splendors  and  the  change 
less  blue. 

THE    ANGEL 

Nay,  sister,  nay  !  a  single  healing  leaf 
Plucked  from  the  bough  of  yon  twelve- 
fruited  tree 
Would     soothe     such     anguish,  —  deeper 

stabbing  grief 
Has  pierced  thy  throbbing  heart  — 


170 


FROM   THE   POET   AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


THE   FIRST   SPIRIT 


Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
I  from  my  clinging  babe  was  rudely  torn; 

His  tender  lips  a  loveless  bosom  pressed ; 
Can  I  forget  him  in  my  life  new  born  ? 

Oh  that  my  darling  lay  upon  my  breast  ! 


THE   ANGEL 


And  thou  ?  — 


THE   SECOND   SPIRIT 

I  was  a  fair  and  youthful  bride, 

The  kiss  of  love  still  burns  upon  my  cheek, 

He  whom  I  worshipped,  ever  at  my  side,  — 

Him  through  the  spirit  realm  in  vain  I 

seek. 

Sweet  faces  turn   their  beaming  eyes  on 

mine ; 
Ah !  not  in  these  the  wished-for  look  I 

read; 

Still  for  that  one  dear  human  smile  I  pine ; 
Thou  and    none  other  I  —  is   the   lover's 
creed. 

THE   ANGEL 

And  whence  thy  sadness  in  a  world  of  bliss 
Where  never  parting  comes,  nor  mourn 
er's  tear  ? 

Art  thou,  too,  dreaming  of  a  mortal's  kiss 
Amid    the    seraphs     of     the     heavenly 
sphere  ? 

THE   THIRD    SPIRIT 

Nay,  tax  not  me  with  passion's  wasting  fire ; 
When  the  swift  message  set    my  spirit 

free, 
Blind,  helpless,  lone,  I  left  my  gray-haired 

sire ; 

My  friends  were  many,  he  had  none  save 
me. 

I  left  him,  orphaned,  in  the  starless  night; 

Alas,    for   him    no    cheerful    morning's 

dawn ! 
I  wear  the  ransomed  spirit's  robe  of  white, 

Yet  still  I  hear  him  moaning,  She  is  gone  ! 

THE   ANGEL 

Ye  know  me  not,  sweet  sisters?  —  All  in 
vain 


Ye  seek  your  lost  ones  in  the  shapes  they 

wore ; 

The  flower  once  opened  may  not  bud  again, 
The  fruit  once  fallen  finds  the  stem  no 
more. 

Child,  lover,  sire,  —  yea,  all  things   loved 

below,  — 
Fair    pictures    damasked   on   a   vapor's 

fold,- 
Fade   like   the   roseate   flush,   the   golden 

glow, 

When  the  bright  curtain  of  the  day  is 
rolled. 

/  was  the  babe  that  slumbered  on  thy  breast, 
And,  sister,  mine  the  lips  that  called  thee 

bride. 

Mine  were  the  silvered  locks  thy  hand  ca 
ressed, 

That  faithful  hand,   my  faltering  foot 
step's  guide  ! 

Each  changing  form,  frail  vesture  of  decay, 
The    soul   unclad   forgets    it   once  hath 

worn, 

Stained  with  the  travel  of  the  weary  day, 
And  shamed  with  rents  from  every  way 
side  thorn. 

To  lie,  an  infant,  in  thy  fond  embrace,  — 
To  come  with  love's  warm  kisses  back  to 

thee,  — 
To  show  thine  eyes  thy  gray-haired  father's 

face, 

Not  Pleaven  itself  could  grant ;  this  may 
not  be  ! 

Then  spread  your  folded  wings,  and  leave 

to  earth 
The  dust  once  breathing  ye  have  mourned 

so  long, 
Till   Love,  new   risen,  owns  his  heavenly 

birth, 
And  sorrow's  discords  sweeten  into  song  ! 


FANTASIA 

THE   YOUNG   GIRL'S   POEM 

Kiss  mine  eyelids,  beauteous  Morn, 
Blushing  into  life  new-born  ! 
Lend  me  violets  for  my  hair, 
And  thy  russet  robe  to  wear, 


WIND-CLOUDS    AND   STAR-DRIFTS 


171 


And  thy  ring  of  rosiest  hue 
Set  in  drops  of  diamond  dew  ! 

Kiss  my  cheek,  thou  noontide  ray, 
From  my  Love  so  far  away  ! 
Let  thy  splendor  streaming  down 
Turn  its  pallid  lilies  brown, 
Till  its  darkening  shades  reveal 
Where  his  passion  pressed  its  seal ! 

Kiss  my  lips,  thou  Lord  of  light, 
Kiss  my  lips  a  soft  good-night  ! 
Westward  sinks  thy  golden  car; 
Leave  me  but  the  evening  star, 
And  my  solace  that  shall  be, 
Borrowing;  all  its  li^ht  from  thee  ! 


AUNT    TABITHA 
Tin-:  YOUXG  GIRL'S  POEM 

WHATEVER  I  do,  and  whatever  I  say, 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  that  isn't  the  way; 
When  she  was  a  girl  (forty  summers  ago) 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  never  did  so. 

Dear  aunt  !  If  I  only  would  take  her  ad 
vice  ! 

But  I  like  my  own  way,  and  I  find  it  .so  nice ! 

And  besides,  I  forget  half  the  things  I  am 
told; 

But  they  all  will  come  back  to  me  —  when 
I  am  old. 

If  a  youth  passes  by,  it  may  happen,  no 

doubt, 
He  may  chance  to  look  in  as  I  chance  to 

look  out; 
She  would   never    endure    an    impertinent 

stare, — 
It  is  horrid,  she    says,  and  I  must  n't    sit 

there. 

A  walk  in  the  moonlight  has  pleasures,  I 

own, 

But  it  is  n't  quite  safe  to  be  walking  alone; 
So  I  take  a  lad's  arm,  —  just  for   safety, 

you  know,  — 
But  Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  did  n't  do  so. 

IIow  wicked  we  are,  and  how  good  they 

were  then  ! 
They  kept  at  arm's  length  those  detestable 

men: 


What  an  era  of  virtue  she  lived  in  !  —  But 

stay  — 
Were    the   men   all    such   rogues   in  Aunt 

Tabitha's  day  ? 

If  the  men  were  so  wicked,  I  '11  ask  my  papa 
IIow  he   dared   to   propose  to  my   darling 

mamma; 
Was  he  like  the  rest  of  them  ?     Goodness  ! 

Who  knows  ? 
And  what  shall  /  say,  if  a  wretch  should 

propose  ? 

I  am   thinking  if  Aunt   knew  so  little  of 

sin, 
What  a  wonder  Aunt  Tabitha's  aunt  must 

have  been  ! 
And  her  grand-aunt  —  it  scares  me  —  how 

shockingly  sad 
That  we  girls  of  to-day  are  so  frightfully 

bad  ! 

A  martyr  will  save  us,  and  nothing  else  can; 
Let  me  perish  —  to  rescue  some  wretched 

young  man  ! 

Though  when  to  the  altar  a  victim  I  go, 
Aunt  Tabitha  '11  tell  me  nhe  never  did  so  ! 


WIXD-CLOUDS    AND    STAR- 
DRIFTS 

FROM  THE  YOUXG  ASTRONOMER'S  POEM 


AMBITION 

ANOTHER  clouded  night;  the  stars  are  hid, 
The  orb  that  waits  my  search   is   hid  with 

them. 
Patience  !     Why  grudge  an  hour,  a  month, 

a  year, 

To  plant  my  ladder  and  to  gain  the  round 
That  leads  my  footsteps  to  the  heaven  of 

fame, 

Where  waits  the  wreath  my  sleepless  mid 
nights  won  ? 

Xot  the  stained  laurel  such  as  heroes  wear 
That  withers  when  some  stronger  conquer 
or's  heel 
Treads  down  their  shrivelling  trophies  in 

the  dust; 

But  the  fair  garland  whose  undying  green 
Not  time  can  change,  nor  wrath  of  gods  or 
men  ! 


172 


FROM   THE   POET   AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


With  quickened   heart-beats  I  shall   hear 

the  tongues 
That  speak  my  praise;  but  better  far  the 

sense 

That  in  the  unshaped  ages,  buried  deep 
In  the  dark  mines  of  unaccomplished  time 
Yet  to  be  stamped  with  morning's  royal  die 
And  coined  in  golden  days,  —  in  those  dim 

years 

I  shall  be  reckoned  with  the  undying  dead, 
My  name  emblazoned  on  the  fiery  arch, 
Unfading   till   the   stars   themselves  shall 

fade. 
Then,   as    they    call   the   roll   of    shining 

worlds, 

Sages  of  race  unborn  in  accents  new 
Shall  count  me  with  the  Olympian  ones  of 

old, 
Whose  glories  kindle  through  the  midnight 

sky: 

Here  glows  the  God  of  Battles;  this  recalls 
The  Lord  of  Ocean,  and  yon  far-off  sphere 
The  Sire  of  Him  who  gave  his  ancient 

name 

To  the  dim  planet  with  the  wondrous  rings; 
Here  flames  the  Queen  of  Beauty's  silver 

lamp, 
And  there  the  moon-girt    orb   of   mighty 

Jove; 
But  this,  unseen  through  all  earth's  seons 

past, 
A  youth  who  watched  beneath  the  western 

star 
Sought  in  the  darkness,  found,  and  shewed 

to  men; 
Linked   with    his    name    thenceforth   and 

evermore  ! 

So  shall  that  name  be  syllabled  anew 
In  all  the  tongues  of  all  the  tribes  of  men: 
I  that  have  been  through  immemorial  years 
Dust  in  the  dust  of  my  forgotten  time 
Shall  live  in  accents  shaped  of  blood-warm 

breath, 

Yea,  rise  in  mortal  semblance,  newly  born 
In  shining  stone,  in  undecaying  bronze, 
And  stand  on  high,  and  look  serenely  down 
On  the  new  race  that  calls  the  earth  its  own. 

Is  this  a  cloud,  that,  blown  athwart  my 

soul, 

Wears  a  false  seeming  of  the  pearly  stain 
Where   worlds    beyond    the    world    their 

mingling  rays 
Blend  in  soft  white,  —  a  cloud  that,  born 

of  earth, 


Would  cheat  the  soul  that  looks  for  light 

from  heaven  ? 

Must  every  coral-insect  leave  his  sign 
On  each  poor  grain  he  lent  to  build  the 

reef, 
As  Babel's  builders  stamped  their  sunburnt 

clay. 

Or  deem  his  patient  service  all  in  vain  ? 
What  if  another  sit  beneath  the  shade 
Of  the  broad  elm  I  planted  by  the  way,  — 
What  if  another  heed  the  beacon  light 
I   set    upon   the   rock    that   wrecked  my 

keel,  — 
Have  I  not  done  my  task  and  served  my 

kind  ? 

Nay,  rather   act   thy   part,   unnamed,  un 
known, 
And  let  Fame  blow  her  trumpet  through 

the  world 

With  noisy  wind  to  swell  a  fool's  renown, 
Joined  with  some  truth  he  stumbled  blindly 

o'er, 

Or  coupled  with  some  single  shining  deed 
That  in  the  great  account  of  all  his  days 
Will  stand  alone  upon  the  bankrupt  sheet 
His    pitying    angel    shows    the    clerk    of 

Heaven. 
The  noblest  service  comes  from  nameless 

hands, 

And  the  best  servant  does  his  work  unseen. 
Who  found  the  seeds  of  fire  and  made 

them  shoot, 
Fed  by  his  breath,  in  buds  and  flowers  of 

flame  ? 

Who  forged  in  roaring  flames  the  ponder 
ous  stone, 

And  shaped  the  moulded  metal  to  his  need  ? 
Who  gave  the  dragging  car  its  rolling 

wheel, 
And  tamed  the  steed  that  whirls  its  circling 

round  ? 
All  these  have  left  their  work  and  not  their 

names,  — 

Why  should  I  murmur  at  a  fate  like  theirs  ? 
This  is  the  heavenly  light;  the  pearly  stain 
Was  but  a  wind-cloud  drifting  o'er  the 

stars  ! 

II 
REGRETS 

Brief  glimpses  of  the  bright  celestial 
spheres, 

False  lights,  false  shadows,  vague,  uncer 
tain  gleams, 


WIND-CLOUDS   AND    STAR-DRIFTS 


173 


Pale  vaporous  mists,  wan  streaks  of  lurid 

flame, 

The  climbing  of  the  upward-sailing  cloud, 
The  sinking  of  the  downward-falling  star,  — 
All  these  are  pictures  of  the  changing 

moods 
Borne  through  the  midnight  stillness  of  my 

soul. 

Here  am  I,  bound  upon  this  pillared  rock, 
Prey  to  the  vulture  of  a  vast  desire 
That  feeds  upon  my  life.  —  I  burst  my  bands 
And  steal   a  moment's  freedom  from  the 

beak, 
The    clinging    talons    and    the    shadowing 

plumes; 
Then  comes  the  false  enchantress,  with  her 

song ; 
"  Thou  wouldst  not  lay  thy  forehead  in  the 

dust 
Like  the  base  herd  that  feeds  and  breeds 

and  dies ! 
Lo,  the    fair   garlands    that    I    weave   for 

thee, 

Unchanging  as  the  belt  Orion  wears, 
Bright  as  the  jewels  of  the  seven-starred 

Crown, 

The  spangled  stream  of  Berenice's  hair  !  " 
And  so  she  twines  the  fetters  with  the 

flowers 
Around  my  yielding  limbs,  and  the  fierce 

bird 
Stoops  to  his    quarry,  —  then  to  feed   his 

rage 

Of  ravening  hunger  I  must  drain  my  blood 
And  let  the  dew-drenched,  poison-breeding 

night 
Steal  all    the    freshness    from    my   fading 

cheek, 
And  leave  its  shadows  round  my  caverned 

eyes. 

All  for  a  line  in  some  unheeded  scroll ; 
All  for  a  stone  that  tells  to  gaping  clowns, 
"  Here   lies   a   restless    wretch    beneath  a 

clod 
Where  squats  the  jealous  nightmare  men 

call  Fame  !  " 

I  marvel  not  at  him  who  scorns  his  kind 
And  thinks  not  sadly  of  the  time  foretold 
When  the  old   hulk  we   tread  shall  be  a 

wreck, 

A  slag,  a  cinder  drifting  through  the  sky 
Without  its  crew  of  fools  !    We   live   too 

long, 


And  even  so  are  not  content  to  die, 

But  load  the    mould   that   covers    up    our 

bones 
With  stones  that  stand  like  beggars  by  the 

road 
And  show  death's  grievous  wound  and  ask 

for  tears; 
Write  our  great  books  to  teach  men  who 

we  are, 
Sing    our   fine   songs   that   tell    in    artful 

phrase 
The    secrets    of  our   lives,  and    plead  and 

pray 

For  alms  of  memory  with  the  after  time, 
Those  few    swift  seasons  while    the  earth 

shall  wear 

Its  leafy  summers,  ere  its  core  grows  cold 
And  the  moist    life    of   all    that   breathes 

shall  die; 
Or  as  the  new-born  seer,  perchance  more 

wise, 
Would  have  us  deem,  before  its  growing 

mass, 

Pelted  with  star-dust,  stoned  with  meteor- 
balls, 

Heats  like  a  hammered  anvil,  till  at  last 
Man  and  his  works  and  all  that  stirred  it 
self 

Of  its  own  motion,  in  the  fiery  glow 
Turns  to  a  flaming  vapor,  and  our  orb 
Shines  a  new  sun  for  earths  that  shall  bo 

born. 

I  am  as  old  as  Egypt  to  myself, 

Brother  to  them  that  squared  the  pyramids 

By  the  same  stars    I  watch.     I  read  the 

page 

Where  every  letter  is  a  glittering  world, 
With  them  who  looked  from  Shinar's  clay- 
built  towers, 

Ere  yet  the  wanderer  of  the  Midland  sea 
Had  missed  the  fallen  sister  of  the  seven. 
I  dwell  in  spaces  vague,  remote,  unknown, 
Save  to  the  silent  few,  who,  leaving  earth, 
Quit  all  communion  with  their  living  time. 
I  lose  myself  in  that  ethereal  void, 
Till  I  have  tired  my  wings  and  long  to  fill 
My  breast    with   denser   air,  to   stand,    to 

walk 

With  eyes  not  raised  above  my  fellow-men. 
Sick  of  my  unwalled,  solitary  realm, 
I  ask  to  change  the  myriad  lifeless  worlds 
I  visit  as  mine  own  for  one  poor  patch 
Of  this  dull  spheroid  and  a  little  breath 
To  shape  in  word  or  deed  to  serve  my  kind, 


174 


FROM   THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


Was  ever  giant's  dungeon  dug  so  deep, 
Was  ever  tyrant's  fetter  forged  so  strong, 
Was  e'er  such  deadly  poison  in  the  draught 
The  false  wife  mingles  for  the  trusting  fool, 
As  he  whose  willing  victim  is  himself 
Digs,  forges,  mingles,  for  his  captive  soul  ? 


Ill 


SYMPATHIES 

The  snows   that  glittered  on  the  disk  of 

Mars 

Have  melted,  and  the  planet's  fiery  orb 
Rolls  in  the  crimson  summer  of  its  year; 
But  what  to  me  the  summer  or  the  snow 
Of  worlds  that  throb  with  life  in  forms  un 
known, 

If  life  indeed  be  theirs;  I  heed  not  these. 
My  heart  is  simply  human;  all  my  care 
For  them  whose  dust  is  fashioned  like  mine 

own; 
These  ache   with  cold  and  hunger,  live  in 

pain, 
And  shake  with  fear  of  worlds  more  full 

of  woe ; 

There  may  be  others  worthier  of  my  love, 
But  such  I  know  not  save  through  these  I 
know. 

There  are  two  veils  of  language,  hid  be 
neath 

Whose  sheltering  folds,  we  dare  to  be  our 
selves; 
And  not  that  other   self  which   nods   and 

smiles 

And  babbles  in  our  name ;  the  one  is  Prayer, 
Lending  its  licensed  freedom  to  the  tongue 
That  tells  our  sorrows  and  our  sins  to 

Heaven ; 
The  other,  Verse,  that  throws  its  spangled 

web 
Around   our   naked   speech  and   makes  it 

bold. 
I,  whose   best   prayer   is    silence;    sitting 

dumb 

In  the  great  temple  where  I  nightly  serve 
Him  who  is  throned  in  light,  have  dared  to 

claim 

The  poet's  franchise,  though  I  may  not  hope 
To  wear  his  garland;  hear  me  while  I  tell 
My  story  in  such  form  as  poets  use, 
But  breathed  in  fitful  whispers,  as  the  wind 
Sighs  and  then  slumbers,  wakes  and  sighs 
again. 


Thou  Vision,  floating  in  the  breathless  air 
Between  me  and  the  fairest  of  the  stars, 
I  tell  my  lonely  thoughts  as  unto  thee. 
Look  not  for  marvels  of  the  scholar's  pen 
In  my  rude  measure;  I  can  only  show 
A  slender-margined,  unilluinined  page, 
And  trust  its  meaning  to  the  flattering  eye 
That  reads  it  in  the  gracious  light  of  love. 
Ah,  would  thou  clothe  thyself  in  breathing 

shape 
And  nestle  at  my  side,  my  voice   should 

lend 
Whate'er   my  verse   may  lack  of  tender 

rhythm 
To  make  thee  listen. 

I  have  stood  entranced 
When,  with  her  fingers  wandering  o'er  the 

keys, 

The  white  enchantress  with  the  golden  hair 
Breathed  all  her  soul   through   some   un 
valued  rhyme; 
Some  flower  of  song  that  long  had  lost  its 

bloom; 

Lo!  its  dead  summer  kindled  as  she  sang  ! 
The  sweet  contralto,  like  the  ringdove's  coo, 
Thrilled  it  with  brooding,  fond,  caressing 

tones, 

And  the  pale  minstrel's  passion  lived  again, 
Tearful  and  trembling  as  a  dewy  rose 
The  wind  has  shaken  till  it  fills  the  air 
With  light  and  fragrance.     Such  the  won 
drous  charm 

A  song  can  borrow  when  the  bosom  throbs 
That  lends  it  breath. 

So  from  the  poet's  lips 
His   verse  sounds  doubly  sweet,  for  none 

like  him 

Feels  every  cadence  of  its  wave-like  flow; 
He  lives  the  passion  over,  while  he  reads, 
That  shook  him  as  he  sang  his  lofty  strain, 
And  pours  his  life  through  each  resounding 

line, 
As   ocean,    when    the    stormy   winds    are 

hushed, 

Still  rolls  and  thunders  through  his  billowy 
caves. 


IV 


MASTER   AND   SCHOLAR 

Let  me  retrace  the  record  of  the  years 
That  made  me  what  I  am.     A  man  most 

wise, 
But  overworn  with  toil  and  bent  with  age, 


WIND-CLOUDS    AND    STAR-DRIFTS 


T75 


Souglit    me  to    be  his    scholar,  —  me,  run 

wild 
From  books  and  teachers,  —  kindled  in  my 

soul 

The  love  of  knowledge ;  led  me  to  his  tower, 
Showed  me  the  wonders   of  the  midnight 

realm 

His  hollow  sceptre  ruled,  or  seemed  to  rule, 
Taught    me    the    mighty    secrets    of    the 

spheres, 
Trained  me  to  find  the  glimmering  specks 

of  light 

Beyond  the  unaided  sense,  and  on  my  chart 
To  string  them  one  by  one,  in  order  due, 
As  on  a  rosary  a  saint  his  beads. 
I  was  his  onlv  scholar;   I  became 
The  echo  to  his  thought;  whate'er  he  knew 
Was  mine  for  asking;  so  from  year  to  year 
We  wrought  together,  till  there  came  a  time 
When  I,  the  learner,  was  the  master  half 
Of  the  twinned  being  in  the  dome-crowned 

tower. 

Minds  roll  in  paths  like  planets;  they  re 
volve, 

This  in  a  larger,  that  a  narrower  ring, 

But  round  they  come  at  last  to  that  same 
phase, 

That  selfsame  light  and  shade  they  showed 
before. 

I  learned  his  annual  and  his  monthlv  tale, 

I 1  is  weekly  axiom  and  his  daily  phrase, 
I  felt  them  coming  in  the  laden  air, 

And    watched   them   laboring   up    to  vocal 

breath, 

Even  as  the  first-born  at  his  father's  board 
Knows  ere  he  speaks  the  too  familiar  jest 
Is  on  its  way,  by  some  mysterious  sign 
Forewarned,  the   click  before  the  striking 

bell. 

lie    shrivelled   as    I    spread    mv    <»Towin<>' 

i  tt  r< 

leaves, 
Till  trust  and  reverence  changed  to  pitying 

care ; 

He  lived  for  me  iu  what  he  once  had  been, 
But  I  for  him,  a  shadow,  a  defence, 
The  guardian  of    his   fame,  his  guide,  his 

staff, 

Leaned  on  so  long  he  fell  if  loft  alone. 
I  was  his  eye,  his  ear,  his  cunning  hand, 
Love  was  my  spur  and  longing  after  fame, 
But  his  the  goading  thorn  of  sleepless  age 
That  sees  its  shortening  span,  its  leno>then- 

11  01  O 

ing  shades, 


That  clutches  what  it  may  with  eager  grasp, 
And  drops  at  last  with  empty,  outstretched 

hands. 
All   this  he  dreamed   not.     He  would   sit 

him  down 

Thinking  to  work  his  problems  as  of  old, 
And  find   the   star  he   thought   so  plain   a 

blur, 

The  columned  figures  labyrinthine  wilds 
Without  my  comment,  blind  and  senseless 

scrawls 
That    vexed    him    with    their    riddles;    he 

would  strive 

And  struggle  for  a  while,  and  then  his  eye 
Would  lose  its  light,  and  over  all  his  mind 
The  cold  gray  mist  would  settle;  and  ere- 

long 
The  darkness  fell,  and  I  was  left  alone. 


V 

ALONK 

Alone  !   no  climber  of  an  Alpine  cliff, 
Xo  Arctic  venturer  on  the  waveless  sea, 
Feels  the  dread   stillness   round   him  as   it 

chills 

The  heart  of  him  who  leaves  the  slumber 
ing  earth 

To  watch  the  silent  worlds  that  crowd  the 
sky. 

Alone  !     And  as    the  shepherd    leaves  his 

flock 

To  feed  upon  the  hillside,  he  meanwhile 
Finds    converse    in    the    warblings    of    the 

pil)e 

Himself  has  fashioned  for  his  vacant  hour, 
So  have  I  grown  companion  to  myself, 
And  to  the  wandering  spirits  of  the  air 
That  smile    and  whisper    round  us  in   our 

dreams. 
Thus    have    I  learned  to  search   if   I  may 

know 

The    whence  and  why  of    all  beneath   tin- 
stars 

And  all  beyond  them,  and  to  weigh  my  life 
As  in  a  balance, — poising  good  and  ill 
Against  each  other,  —  asking  of  the  Power 
That  flung   me  forth  among  the  whirling 

worlds, 

If  I  am  heir  to  any  inborn  right, 
Or  only  as  an  atom  of  the  dust 
That  every  wind  may  blow  where'er  it  will. 


i76 


FROM   THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


VI 

QUESTIONING 

I  am  not  humble;  I  was  shown  my  place, 
Clad  in  such  robes  as  Nature  had  at  hand ; 
Took  what  she  gave,  not  chose;  I  know  no 

shame, 

No  fear  for  being  simply  what  I  am. 
I  am  not  proud,  I  hold  my  every  breath 
At  Nature's  mercy.     I  am  as  a  babe 
Borne    in   a  giant's   arms,   he    knows  not 

where ; 
Each  several  heart-beat,  counted  like  the 

coin 

A  miser  reckons,  is  a  special  gift 
As  from  an  unseen  hand;  if  that  withhold 
Its  bounty  for  a  moment,  I  am  left 
A  clod  upon  the  earth  to  which  I  fall. 

Something  I  find   in   me  that  well  might 

claim 

The  love  of  beings  in  a  sphere  above 
This  doubtful  twilight  world  of  right  and 

wrong; 
Something  that  shows  me  of  the  selfsame 

clay 
That  creeps  or  swims  or  flies  in  humblest 

form. 

Had  I  been  asked,  before  I  left  my  bed 
Of  shapeless  dust,  what  clothing  I  would 

wear, 
I   would  have  said,  More   angel  and  less 

worm; 

But  for  their  sake  who  are  even  such  as  I, 
Of  the  same  mingled  blood,  I  would  not 

choose 

To  hate  that  meaner  portion  of  myself 
Which  makes  me  brother  to  the  least  of 

men. 

I  dare  not  be  a  coward  with  my  lips 

Who  dare  to  question  all  things  in  my  soul ; 

Some  men  may  find  their  wisdom  on  their 

knees, 
Some  prone  and  grovelling  in  the  dust  like 

slaves ; 

Let  the  meek  glowworm  glisten  in  the  dew; 
I  ask  to  lift  my  taper  to  the  sky 
As  they  who  hold  their  lamps  above  their 

heads, 

Trusting  the  larger  currents  up  aloft, 
Rather  than   crossing   eddies   round   their 

breast, 
Threatening  with  every  puff  the  flickering 

blaze. 


My  life  shall  be  a  challenge,  not  a  truce  ! 
This  is  my  homage  to  the  mightier  powers, 
To  ask  my  boldest  question,  undismayed 
By  muttered  threats    that   some   hysteric 

sense 

Of  wrong  or  insult  will  convulse  the  throne 
Where  wisdom  reigns  supreme;  and  if  I 

err, 
They  all  must  err  who  have  to  feel  their 

way 

As  bats  that  fly  at  noon;  for  what  are  we 
But  creatures  of  the  night,  dragged  forth 

by  day, 

Who  needs  must  stumble,  and  with  stam 
mering  steps 
Spell  out  their  paths  in  syllables  of  pain  ? 

Thou  wilt  not  hold  in  scorn  the  child  who 

dares 
Look  up  to  Thee,  the  Father,  —  dares  to 

ask 
More  than  thy  wisdom  answers.     From  thy 

hand 
The   worlds   were   cast ;  yet  every  leaflet 

claims 
From   that   same   hand   its    little   shining 

sphere 

Of  star-lit  dew;  thine  image,  the  great  sun 
Girt  with  his  mantle  of  tempestuous  flame, 
Glares  in  mid-heaven;  but  to  his  noontide 

blaze 

The  slender  violet  lifts  its  lidless  eye, 
And  from  his    splendor   steals   its   fairest 

hue, 
Its  sweetest  perfume  from  his  scorching 

fire. 

VII 

WORSHIP 

From  my  lone  turret  as  I  look  around 
O'er  the  green  meadows  to  the  ring  of  blue, 
From  slope,  from  summit,  and  from  half- 
hid  vale 
The   sky   is  stabbed   with   dagger-pointed 

spires, 

Their  gilded  symbols  whirling  in  the  wind, 
Their  brazen  tongues  proclaiming  to  the 

world, 

"  Here  truth  is  sold,  the  only  genuine  ware ; 
See  that  it  has  our  trade-mark  !  You  will 

buy 
Poison  instead  of  food  across  the  way, 

The  lies  of "  this  or  that,  each  several 

name 


WIND-CLOUDS    AND    STAR-DRIFTS 


177 


The  standard's  blazon  and  the  battle-cry 
Of  some  true-gospel  faction,  and  again 
The  token  of  the  Beast  to  all  beside. 
And  grouped  round  each  I  see  a  huddling 

crowd 

Alike  in  all  things  save  the  words  they  use ; 
In  love,  in  longing,  hate  and  fear  the  same. 

Whom  do  we  trust  and  serve  ?     We  speak 

of  one 

And  bow  to  many;  Athens  still  would  find 
The  shrines  of  all  she  worshipped  safe 

within 

Our  tall  barbarian  temples,  and  the  thrones 
That  crowned  Olympus  mighty  as  of  old. 
The  god  of  music  rules  the  Sabbath  choir; 
The  lyric  muse  must  leave  the  sacred  nine 
To  help  us  please  the  dilettante's  ear; 
Phitus    limps   homeward    with   us,   as     we 

leave 

The  portals  of  the  temple  where  we  knelt 
And  listened  while  the  god  of  eloquence 
(Hermes  of  ancient  days,  but  now  disguised 
In  sable  vestments)  with  that  other  god 
Somnus,  the  son  of  Erebus  and  Xox, 
Fights  in  unequal  contest  for  our  souls; 
The  dreadful  sovereign  of  the  under-world 
Still  shakes  his  sceptre  at  us,  and  we  hear 
The  baying  of  the  triple-throated  hound  ; 
Kros  is  young  as  ever,  and  as  fair 
The  lovely  Goddess  born  of  ocean's  foam. 

These  be  thy  gods,  O  Israel  !  Who  is  he, 
The  one  ye  name  and  tell  us  that  ye  serve, 
Whom  ye  would  call  me  from  mv  lonely 

tower 

To  worship  with  the  many-headed  throng  ? 
Is  it  the  God  that  walked  in  Eden's  grove 
In  the  cool  hour  to  seek  our  guiltv  sire  ? 
The   God  who  dealt  with  Abraham  as    the 

sons 

Of  that  old  patriarch  deal  with  other  men  ? 
The  jealous  God  of  Moses,  one  who  feels 
An  image  as  an  insult,  and  is  wroth 
With   him  who  made  it  and   his  child  un 
born  ? 

The  God  who  plagued  his  people  for  the  sin 
Of  their  adulterous  king,  beloved  of 

him,  — 

The  same  who  offers  to  a  chosen  few 
The  right  to  praise  him  in  eternal  song 
While  a  vast  shrieking  world  of  endless  woe 
Blends  its  dread  chorus  with  their   raptur 
ous  hymn  ? 
Is  this  the  God  ye  mean,  or  is  it  he 


Who  heeds  the  sparrow's  fall,  whose  loving 

heart 

Is  as  the  pitying  father's  to  his  child, 
Whose  lesson  to  his  children  is   "  Forgive," 
Whose  plea  for  all,  "  They  know  not  what 

they  do  "  ? 


MANHOOD 

I  claim  the  right  of  knowing  whom  I  serve, 
Else  is  mv  service  idle;  He  that  asks 
My  homage  asks  it  from  a  reasoning  soul. 
To    crawl    is    not     to    worship;     we     have 

learned 

A  drill  of  eyelids,  bended  neck  and  knee, 
Hanging  our  prayers  on  hinges,  till  we  ape 
The  ilexures  of  the  many-jointed  worm. 
Asia  has  taught  her  Allahs  and  salaams 
To  the  world's  children, —  we  have   grown 

to  men  ! 
We   who   have    rolled  the    sphere    beneath 

our  feet 

To  find  a  virgin  forest,  as  we-  lay 
The  beams  of  our  rude  temple,  first  of  all 
Must  frame  its  doorway  high  enough   for 

man 

To  pass  unstooping;  knowing  as  we  do 
That  lie  who  shaped  us  last  of  living  forms 
Has  long  enough  been  served   bv  creeping 

things, 
Reptiles   that  left   their    footprints   in   the 

sand 
Of   old   sea-margins   that   have  turned   to 

stone, 

And  men  who  learned  their  ritual;  we  de 
mand 
To  know   Him  first,  then  trust    Him   and 

then  love 
When  we  have  found   Him  worthy  of  our 

love, 

Tried  by  our  own  poor  hearts  and  not  be 
fore-  ; 

He  must  be  truer  than  the  truest  friend, 
He  must  be  tenderer  than  a  woman's  love, 
A  father  better  than  the  best  of  sires; 
Kinder  than  she  who  bore  us,  though  we 

sin 

Oftener  than  did  the  brother  we  are  told 
We  —  poor    ill-tempered    mortals  —  must 

forgive, 
Though    seven    times    sinning   threescore 

times  and  ten. 


1 73 


FROM   THE   POET   AT  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


This  is  the  new  world's  gospel:  Be  ye  men  ! 
Try  well  the  legends  of  the  children's  time ; 
Ye  are  the  chosen  people,  God  has  led 
Your  steps  across  the  desert  of  the  deep 
As  now  across  the  desert  of  the  shore; 
Mountains  are  cleft  before  you  as  the  sea 
Before  the  wandering  tribe  of  Israel's  sons ; 
Still  onward  rolls  the  thunderous  caravan, 
Its  coming  printed  on  the  western  sky, 
A  cloud  by  day,  by  night  a  pillared  flame; 
Your  prophets  are  a  hundred  unto  one 
Of  them  of  old  who  cried,  "  Thus  saith  the 

Lord;" 

They  told  of  cities  that  should  fall  in  heaps, 
But  yours  of  mightier  cities  that  shall  rise 
Where  yet  the  lonely  fishers  spread  their 

nets, 
Where  hides  the  fox  and  hoots  the  midnight 

owl ; 

The  tree  of  knowledge  in  your  garden  grows 
Not  single,  but  at  every  humble  door; 
Its  branches  lend  you  their  immortal  food, 
That  fills  you  with  the  sense  of  what  ye 

are, 

No  servants  of  an  altar  hewed  and  carved 
From   senseless  stone   by  craft  of   human 

hands, 

Rabbi,  or  dervish,  brahmin,  bishop,  bonze, 
But  masters  of  the  charm  with  which  they 

work 
To  keep  your  hands  from  that  forbidden 

tree  ! 

Ye  that  have  tasted  that  divinest  fruit, 
Look  on  this  world  of  yours  with  opened 

eyes  ! 
Ye  are  as   gods  !     Nay,   makers  of  your 

gods,  — 

Each  day  ye  break  an  image  in  your  shrine 
And  plant  a  fairer  image  where  it  stood: 
Where  is  the  Moloch  of  your  fathers'  creed, 
Whose  fires  of  torment  burned  for  span- 
long  babes  ? 

Fit  object  for  a  tender  mother's  love  ! 
Why  not  ?     It  was  a  bargain  duly  made 
For  these  same  infants  through  the  surety's 

act 
Intrusted   with   their    all    for    earth   and 

heaven, 
By  Him  who  chose  their  guardian,  knowing 

well 

His  fitness  for  the  task,  —  this,  even  this, 
Was  the  true  doctrine  only  yesterday 
As  thoughts  are    reckoned,  —  and   to-day 

you  hear 


In   words   that   sound   as  if  from   human 

tongues 
Those   monstrous,  uncouth  horrors  of  the 

past 
That  blot  the  blue  of  heaven  and  shame  the 

earth 

As  would  the  saurians  of  the  age  of  slime, 
Awaking  from  their  stony  sepulchres 
And  wallowing  hateful  in  the  eye  of  day  ! 


RIGHTS 

What   am  I  but   the    creature  Thou  hast 

made? 
What  have  I  save  the  blessings  Thou  hast 

lent  ? 

What  hope  I  but  thy  mercy  and  thy  love  ? 
Who  but  myself  shall  cloud  my  soul  with 

fear? 
Whose  hand  protect  me  from  myself  but 

thine  ? 
I  claim   the   rights  of  weakness,  I,  the 

babe, 

Call  on  my  sire  to  shield  me  from  the  ills 
That  still  beset  my  path,  not  trying  me 
With   snares   beyond   my  wisdom   or  my 

strength, 

He  knowing  I  shall  use  them  to  my  harm, 
And  find  a  tenfold  misery  in  the  sense 
That  in  my  childlike  folly  I  have  sprung 
The  trap  upon  myself  as  vermin  use, 
Drawn  by  the  cunning  bait  to  certain  doom. 
Who   wrought   the  wondrous   charm  that 

leads  us  on 

To  sweet  perdition,  but  the  selfsame  power 
That  set  the  fearful  engine  to  destroy 
His  wretched  offspring  (as  the  Rabbis  tell), 
And  hid  its  yawning  jaws  and  treacherous 

springs 

In  such  a  show  of  innocent  sweet  flowers 
It  lured  the  sinless  angels  and  they  fell  ? 
Ah  !     He  who  prayed  the  prayer  of  all 

mankind 
Summed  in    those   few  brief  words   the 

mightiest  plea 
For    erring    souls    before    the    courts    of 

heaven,  — 
Save  us  from  being  tempted,  — lest  we  fall  ! 

If  we  are  only  as  the  potter's  clay 
Made  to  be  fashioned  as  the  artist  wills, 
And  broken  into  shards  if  we  offend 


WIND-CLOUDS    AND    STAR-DRIFTS 


179 


The  eye  of  Him  who  made  us,  it  is  well; 
Such  love  as  the  insensate  lump  of  clay 
That  spins  upon  the  swift-revolving  wheel 
Bears  to  the  hand  that  shapes  its  growing 

form,  — 

Such  love,  no  more,  will  be  our  hearts'  re 
turn 
To    the    great    Master-workman    for    his 

care, — 
Or  would  be,  save  that  this,  our  breathing 

clay, 

Is  intertwined  with  fine  innumerous  threads 
That    make    it    conscious    in    its    framer's 

hand; 

And  this  He  must  remember  who  has  rilled 
These  vessels  with  the  deadly  draught  of 

life,  - 
Life,  that   means  death  to   all  it    claims. 

Our  love 
Must  kindle  in  the  ray  that  streams  from 

heaven, 

A  faint  reflection  of  the  light  divine; 
The  sun  must  warm  the  earth  before  the 

rose 
Can  show  her  inmost  heart-leaves  to  the 

sun. 

lie  yields  some  fraction  of  the  Maker's  right 
Who  gives  the  quivering  nerve  its  sense  of 

pain ; 

Is  there  not  something  in  the  pleading  eye 
Of  the  poor  brute  that  suffers,  which  ar 
raigns 

The  law  that  bids  it  suffer  ?     Has  it  not 
A  claim  for  some  remembrance  in  the  book 
That  tills  its  pages  with  the  idle  words 
Spoken  of  men  ?     Or  is  it  only  clay. 
Bleeding  and  aching  in  the  potter's  hand, 
Yet  all  his  own  to  treat  it  as  He  will 
And  when  He  will  to  cast  it  at  his  feet, 
Shattered,  dishonored,  lost  forevermore  ? 
My  dog  loves  me,  but  could  he  look  beyond 
His  earthly  master,  would  his  love  extend 
To  Him  who  —       Hush  !  I  will  not  doubt 

that  He 

Is  better  than  our  fears,  and  will  not  wrong 
The  least,  the  meanest  of  created  things  ! 

He  would  not  trust  me  with  the   smallest 

orb 
That  circles   through  the  sky;  He   would 

not  give 

.V  meteor  to  my  guidance;  would  not  leave 
The  coloring  of  a  cloudlet  to  my  hand; 
lie  locks  mv  beating  heart  beneath  its  bars 


And  keeps  the  key  himself;  He  measures 

out 
The  draughts  of   vital  breath  that  warm 

my  blood, 

Winds  up  the  springs  of  instinct  which  un 
coil, 

Each  in  its  season ;  ties  me  to  my  home, 
My    race,    my    time,   my    nation,  and   my 

creed 

!    So  closely  that  if  I  but  slip  my  wrist 
I   Out  of  the  band  that  cuts  it  to  the  bone, 
Men  say,  "  He  hath  a  devil;  "  He  has  lent 
All  that  I  hold  in  trust,  as  unto  one 
I    By  reason  of  his  weakness  and  his  years 
Not  fit  to  hold  the  smallest  shred  in  fee 
I    Of  those  most  common  things  he  calls  his 

own,  — 
And  yet  —  mv  Rabbi  tells  me  —  He   has 

'  left 

:   The  care  of  that  to  which  a  million  worlds 
Filled  with  unconscious  life  were  less  than 

naught, 

Has  left  that  mighty  universe,  the  Soul 
'    To  the  weak  guidance  of  our  baby  hands, 

Let  the  foul  fiends  have  access  at  their  v*  ill, 

!    Taking  the  shape  of  angels,  to  our  hearts,  — 

Our  hearts  already  poisoned  through  and 

through 

With  the  fierce  virus  of  ancestral  sin; 
Turned  us  adrift  with  our  immortal  charge, 
To  wreck  ourselves  in  gulfs  of  endless  woe. 
If  what  my  Rabbi  tells  me  is  the  truth 
Why  did  the  choir  of  angels  sing  for  joy  ? 
j    Heaven   must   be   compassed  in  a   narrow 

space, 

And  offer  more  than  room  enough  for  all 
That  pass  its  portals;  but  the  under- world, 
The  godless  realm,  the  place  where  demons 

forge 

Their  fiery  darts  and  adamantine  chains, 
Must   swarm  with   ghosts  that  for  a   little 

while 

Had  worn  the  garb  of  flesh,  and  being  heirs 
Of  all  the  dulness  of  their  stolid  sires. 
And  all  the  erring  instincts  of  their  tribe. 
Nature's  own  teaching,  rudiments  of  "  sin," 
Fell  headlong  in  the  snare  that  could  not 

fail 
To  trap  the  wretched  creatures  shaped  of 

clay 
And  cursed  with  sense  enough  to  lose  their 

souls  ! 
Brother,   thy    heart    is    troubled   at    my 

word ; 
Sister,  I  see  the  cloud  is  on  thy  brow. 


i8o 


FROM   THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


He  will  not  blame  me,  He  who  sends  not 

peace, 

But  sends  a  sword,  and  bids  us  strike  amain 
At  Error's  gilded  crest,  where  in  the  van 
Of  earth's  great  army,  mingling  with  the 

best 

And  bravest  of  its  leaders,  shouting  loud 
The  battle-cries  that  yesterday  have  led 
The  host  of  Truth  to  victory,  but  to-day 
Are  watchwords  of  the  laggard  and  the 

slave, 
He  leads   his   dazzled   cohorts.     God  has 

made 

This  world  a  strife  of  atoms  and  of  spheres; 
With  every  breath  I  sigh  myself  away 
And  take  my  tribute  from  the  wandering 

wind 

To  fan  the  flame  of  life's  consuming  fire ; 
So,  while   my  thought   has   life,  it  needs 

must  burn, 

And,  burning,  set  the  stubble-fields  ablaze, 
Where  all  the  harvest  long  ago  was  reaped 
And  safely  garnered  in  the  ancient  barns. 
But  still   the  gleaners,  groping   for  their 

food, 
Go  blindly  feeling  through  the  close-shorn 

straw, 

While  the  young  reapers  flash  their  glitter 
ing  steel 
Where   later   suns    have    ripened    nobler 

grain  ! 


X 


TRUTHS 

The  time  is  racked  with  birth-pangs;  every 

hour 
Brings  forth  some  gasping  truth,  and  truth 

newborn 

Looks  a  misshapen  and  untimely  growth, 
The  terror  of  the  household  and  its  shame, 
A  monster  coiling  in  its  nurse's  lap 
That  some  would  strangle,  some  would  only 

starve ; 
But  still  it  breathes,  and  passed  from  hand 

to  hand, 

And  suckled  at  a  hundred  half-clad  breasts, 
Comes  slowly  to  its  stature  and  its  form, 
Calms   the    rough   ridges   of    its   dragon- 
scales, 

Changes  to  shining  locks  its  snaky  hair, 
And  moves  transfigured  into  angel  guise, 
Welcomed  by  all  that  cursed  its  hour  of 
birth, 


And  folded  in  the  same  encircling  arms 
That  cast  it  like  a  serpent  from  their  hold  ! 

If  thou  wouldst  live  in  honor,  die  in  peace, 
Have  the  fine  words  the  marble-workers 

learn 

To  carve  so  well,  upon  thy  funeral-stone, 
And  earn  a  fair  obituary,  dressed 
In  all  the  many-colored  robes  of  praise, 
Be  deafer  than  the  adder  to  the  cry 
Of    that   same    foundling   truth,   until    it 

grows 

To  seemly  favor,  and  at  length  has  won 
The    smiles    of    hard-mouthed    men    and 

light-lipped  dames; 
Then    snatch   it  from  its   meagre   nurse's 

breast, 

Fold  it  in  silk  and  give  it  food  from  gold; 
So  shalt  thou  share  its  glory  when  at  last 
It  drops  its  mortal  vesture,  and,  revealed 
In  all  the  splendor  of  its  heavenly  form, 
Spreads   on    the   startled   air    its    mighty 

wings  ! 

Alas !  how   much   that   seemed   immortal 

truth 
That  heroes  fought  for,  martyrs  died  to 

save, 

Reveals  its  earth-born  lineage,  growing  old 
And  limping  in  its  march,  its  wings  un- 

plumed, 

Its  heavenly  semblance  faded  like  a  dream  ! 
Here   in   this  painted   casket,  just    un 
sealed, 
Lies  what  was  once  a  breathing  shape  like 

thine, 
Once  loved  as  thou  art  loved;  there  beamed 

the  eyes 
That    looked  on  Memphis  in  its  hour  of 

pride, 
That    saw    the    walls    of     hundred-gated 

Thebes, 

And  all  the  mirrored  glories  of  the  Nile. 
See  how  they  toiled  that  all-consuming  time 
Might   leave    the    frame    immortal   in   its 

tomb; 
Filled  it  with  fragrant  balms  and  odorous 

gums 
That  still  diffuse  their  sweetness  through 

the  air, 
And  wound  and  wound  with  patient  fold 

on  fold 

The  flaxen  bands  thy  hand  has  rudely  torn  ! 
Perchance  thou  yet  canst  see  the  faded  stain 
Of  the  sad  mourner's  tear. 


WIND-CLOUDS    AND    STAR-DRIFTS 


181 


XI 

IDOLS 

But  what  is  this  ? 

The  sacred  beetle,  bound  upon  the  breast 
Of  the  blind  heathen  !     Snatch  the  curious 

prize, 

Give  it  a  place  among  thy  treasured  spoils, 
Fossil  and  relic,  —  corals,  encrinites, 
The  fly  in  amber  and  the  fish  in  stone, 
The  twisted  circlet  of  Etruscan  gold, 
Medal,  intaglio,  poniard,  poison-ring,  — 
Place  for  the  Memphian  beetle  with  thine 

hoard  ! 

Ah  !   longer  than  thy  creed  has  blest  the 

world 
This  toy,  thus  ravished  from  thy  brother's 

breast, 

Was  to  the  heart  of  Mizraim  as  divine, 
As  holy,  as  the  symbol  that  we  lay 
On  the  still  bosom  of  our  white-robed  dead, 
And  raise    above  their  dust  that  all  may 

know 
Here    sleeps   an   heir   of    glory.       Loving 

friends, 
With  tears  of  trembling  faith  and  choking 

sobs, 
And  prayers  to  those  who  judge  of  mortal 

deeds, 
Wrapped  this  poor  image  in  the  cerement's 

fold 

That  Isis  and  Osiris,  friends  of  man, 
Might  know  their  own  and  claim  the  ran 
somed  soul. 

An  idol  ?     Man  was  born  to  worship  such  ! 
An  idol  is  an  image  of  his  thought; 
Sometimes    he    carves  it  out  of   gleaming 
stone, 

And  sometimes  moulds  it  out  of  o-litterino- 
11  ° 

gold, 

Or  rounds  it  in  a  mighty  frescoed  dome, 
Or  lifts  it  heavenward  in  a  lofty  spire, 
Or  shapes  it  in  a  cunning  frame  of  words, 
Or  pays  his  priest  to  make  it  day  by  day; 
For  sense  must  have  its  god  as  well  as  soul; 
A  new-born  Dian  calls  for  silver  shrines, 
And  Egypt's  holiest  symbol  is  our  own, 
The  sign  we  worship  as  did  they  of  old 
When  Isis  and  Osiris  ruled  the  world. 

Let  us  be  true  to  our  most  subtle  selves, 
We  lono-  to  have  our  idols  like  the  rest. 


Think  !  when  the  men  of  Israel  had  their 

God 
Encamped  among  them,  talking  with  their 

chief, 

!  Leading  them  in  the  pillar  of  the  cloud 
And  watching  o'er  them  in  the  shaft  of  fire, 
They  still  must  have  an  image;  still  they 

longed 

For  somewhat  of  substantial,  solid  form 
Whereon  to  hang  their  garlands,  and  to  fix 
Their    wandering    thoughts    and    gain    a 

stronger  hold 

For  their  uncertain  faith,  not  yet  assured 
If  those  same  meteors  of  the  day  and  night 
Were  not  mere  exhalations  of  the  soil. 

Are  we  less  earthly  than  the  chosen  race  ? 
Are  we  more  neighbors  of  the  living  God 
Than  they  who  gathered  manna  every  morn, 
Reaping  where  none  had  sown,  and  heard 

the  voice 

Of  him  who  met  the  Highest  in  the  mount, 
And  brought  them  tables,  graven  with  His 

hand  ? 
Yet    these  must  have   their    idol,  brought 

their  gold, 

That  star-browed  Apis  might  be  god  again; 
Yea,  from  their  ears  the  women  brake  the 

rings 

That  lent  such  splendors  to  the  gypsy  brown 
Of    sunburnt   cheeks,  —  what    more    could 

woman  do 

To  show  her  pious  zeal  ?    They  went  astray, 
But  nature  led  them  as  it  leads  us  all. 

We  too,  who  mock  at  Israel's  golden  calf 
And  scoff  at  Egypt's  sacred  scarabee, 
Would  have  our  amulets  to  clasp  and  kiss, 
And  Hood  with  rapturous  tears,  and  bear 

with  us 

To  be  our  dear  companions  in  the  dust; 
Such  magic  works  an  image  in  our  souls  ! 

Man  is  an  embryo;  see  at  twenty  years 
!   His   bones,    the    columns    that    uphold   his 

frame 

!   Xot  j'et  cemented,  shaft  and  capital, 
!   Mere  fragments  of  the  temple  incomplete. 
i   At   twoscore,    threescore,    is    he    then  full 

grown  ? 

Nay,  still  a  child,  and  as  the  little  maids 
Dress  and  undress  their  puppets,  so  he  tries 
To  dress  a  lifeless  creed,  as  if  it  lived, 
And    change  its    raiment  when  the   world 

cries  shame  ! 

We  smile  to  see  our  little  ones  at  play 
So  grave,  so  thoughtful,  with  maternal  care 


182 


FROM   THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


Nursing  the  wisps  of  rags  they  call  their 

babes ; — 
Does  He  not  smile  who  sees  us  with  the 

toys 

We  call  by  sacred  names,  and  idly  feign 
To  be  what  we  have  called  them  ?     He  is 

still 

The  Father  of  this  helpless  nursery-brood, 
Whose  second  childhood  joins  so  close  its 

first, 

That  in  the  crowding,  hurrying  years  be 
tween 
We  scarce  have  trained  our  senses  to  their 

task 
Before  the  gathering  mist  has  dimmed  our 

eyes, 
And  with  our  hollowed  palm  we  help  our 

ear, 

And  trace  with  trembling  hand  our  wrin 
kled  names, 

And  then  begin  to  tell  our  stories  o'er, 
And  see  —  not  hear  —  the  whispering  lips 

that  say, 
"  You  know ?  Your  father  knew  him. 

—  This  is  he, 
Tottering   and    leaning   on   the   hireling's 

arm,"  - 
And    so,  at  length,  disrobed    of    all    that 

clad 
The  simple  life  we  share  with  weed  and 

worm, 
Go  to  our  cradles,  naked  as  we  came. 


XII 
LOVE 

What   if  a   soul  redeemed,  a  spirit  that 

loved 
While   yet  on  earth  and  was  beloved   in 

turn, 

And  still  remembered  every  look  and  tone 
Of  that  dear  earthly  sister  who  was  left 
Among  the  unwise  virgins  at  the  gate, — 
Itself    admitted    with    the     bridegroom's 

train,  — 
What  if  this    spirit  redeemed,   amid   the 

host 

Of  chanting  angels,  in  some  transient  lull 
Of  the  eternal  anthem,  heard  the  cry 
Of  its  lost  darling,  whom  in  evil  hour 
Some  wilder  pulse  of  nature  led  astray 
And  left  an  outcast  in  a  world  of  fire, 
Condemned  to  be  the  sport  of  cruel  fiends, 


Sleepless,  unpitying,  masters  of  the  skill 
To  wring  the  maddest  ecstasies  of  pain 
From  worn-out  souls  that  only  ask  to  die,  — 
Would  it   not  long  to   leave  the  bliss  of 

heaven, — 

Bearing  a  little  water  in  its  hand 
To  moisten  those  poor  lips  that  plead  in 

vain 

With  Him  we  call  our  Father  ?     Or  is  all 
So  changed  in  such  as  taste  celestial  joy 
They  hear  unmoved    the   endless  wail    of 

woe; 
The  daughter  in  the  same  dear  tones  that 

hushed 
Her  cradle  slumbers;    she  who  once  had 

held 

A  babe  upon  her  bosom  from  its  voice 
Hoarse  with    its  cry  of   anguish,  yet  the 

same  ? 

No  !  not  in  ages  when  the  Dreadful  Bird 
Stamped  his  huge  footprints,  and  the  Fear 
ful  Beast 
Strode   with  the  flesh   about   those    fossil 

bones 

We  build  to  mimic  life  with  pygmy  hands, — 
Not  in  those  earliest  days  when  men  ran 

wild 
And  gashed  each  other  with  their  knives  of 

stone, 
When  their  low  foreheads  bulged  in  ridgy 

brows 
And  their  flat  hands  were  callous  in  the 

palm 

With  walking  in  the  fashion  of  their  sires, 
Grope  as  they  might  to  find  a  cruel  god 
To  work  their  will  on  such  as  human  wrath 
Had  wrought  its  worst  to  torture,  and  had 

left 
With  rage  unsated,  white  and  stark  and 

cold, 
Could   hate   have   shaped   a   demon  more 

malign 
Than  him  the  dead  men  mummied  in  their 

creed 
And   taught    their   trembling   children   to 

adore  ! 
Made  in  his  image  !     Sweet  and  gracious 

souls 
Dear    to    my    heart   by   nature's   fondest 

names, 

Is  not  your  memory  still  the  precious  mould 
That  lends  its  form  to  Him  who  hears  my 

prayer  ? 
Thus  only  I  behold  Him.  like  to  them, 


EPILOGUE  TO   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE   SERIES 


183 


Long-suffering,  gentle,  ever  slow  to  wrath, 
If  wrath  it  be  that  only  wounds  to  heal, 
Ready  to  meet  the  wanderer  ere  he  reach 
The  door  he  seeks,  forgetful  of  his  sin, 
Longing  to  clasp  him  in  a  father's  arms, 
And  seal  his  pardon  with  a  pitying  tear  ! 

Four  gospels  tell  their  story  to  mankind, 
And  none  so  full  of  soft,  caressing  words 
That  bring  the  Maid  of  Bethlehem  and  her 

Babe 
Before  our  tear-dimmed  eyes,  as  his  who 

learned 

In  the  meek  service  of  his  gracious  art 
The  tones  which,  like  the  medicinal  balms 
That  calm  the   sufferer's    anguish,   soothe 

our  souls. 

Oh  that  the  loving  woman,  she  who  sat 
So  long*  a  listener  at  her  Master's  feet, 
Had  left  us  Mary's  Gospel,  —  all  she  heard 
Too  sweet,  too  subtle  for  the  ear  of  man  ! 
Mark  how  the  tender-hearted  mothers  read 
The  messages  of  love  between  the  lines 
Of    the   same   page    that  loads   the    bitter 

tongue 

Of  him  who  deals  in  terror  as  his  trade 
With    threatening    words    of    wrath    that 

scorch  like  flame  ! 
They  tell  of  angels  whispering  round  the 

bed 

Of  the  sweet  infant  smiling  in  its  dream, 
Of  lambs  enfolded  in  the  Shepherd's  arms, 
Of  Him  who  blessed  the  children;  of  the 

land 

Where  crystal  rivers  feed  unfading  flowers, 
Of  cities  golden-paved  with  streets  of  pearl, 
Of  the  white  robes  the  winged  creatures 

wear, 

The  crowns  and  harps  from  whose  melodi 
ous  strings 

One  long,  sweet  anthem,  flows  forever- 
more  ! 

We  too  had  human  mothers,  even  as  Thon, 

Whom  we  have  learned  to  worship  as 
remote 

From  mortal  kindred,  wast  a  cradled  babe. 

The  milk  of  woman  filled  our  branching 
veins, 

She  lulled  us  with  her  tender  nursery- 
song, 

And  folded  round  us  her  untiring  arms, 

While  the  first  unremembered  twilight 
year 

Shaped  us  to  conscious  being;  still  we  feel 


Her  pulses  in  our  own,  — too  faintly  feel; 
Would  that  the  heart  of  woman  warmed 
our  creeds  ! 

Xot  from  the  sad-eyed  hermit's  lonely  cell, 
Xot    from    the    conclave    where    the     holy 

men 

Glare  on  each  other,  as  with  angry  eyes 
They  battle  for  God's  glory  and  their  own, 
Till,  sick  of  wordy  strife,  a  show  of  hands 
Fixes  the  faith  of  ages  yet  unborn,  — 
Ah,  not  from  these  the  listening  soul  can 

hear 
The     Father's     voice    that    speaks    itself 

divine  ! 
Love    must    be    still   our   Master;  till   we 

learn 

What  he  can  teach  us  of  a  woman's  heart, 
We  know  not  His  whose  love  embraces  all. 


EPILOGUE     TO      THE     BREAK 
FAST-TABLE    SERIES 

AUTOCRAT  —  PROFESSOR  —  POET 
AT    A    BOOKSTORE 


A  CRAZY  bookcase,  placed  before 
A  low-price  dealer's  open  door; 
Therein  arrayed  in  broken  rows 
A  ragged  crew  of  rhyme  and  prose, 
The  homeless  vagrants,  waifs,  and  strays 
Whose  low  estate  this  line  betrays 
(Set  forth  the  lesser  birds  to  lime) 
YOUR     CHOICE     AMONG     THESE     BOOKS     1 
DIME  ! 

Ho  !  dealer;  for  its  motto's  sake 
This  scarecrow  from  the  shelf  I  take; 
Three  starveling  volumes  bound  in  one, 
Its  covers  warping  in  the  sun. 
Methinks  it  hath  a  musty  smell, 
I  like  its  flavor  none  too  well, 
But  Yorick's  brain  was  far  from  dull, 
Though  Hamlet  pah  !  'd,  and  dropped  his 
skull. 

Why,  here  comes  rain  !      The  sky  grows 

dark, — 

Was  that  the  roll  of  thunder  ?     Hark  ! 
The  shop  affords  a  safe  retreat, 
A  chair  extends  its  welcome  seat, 


i84 


FROM   THE   POET   AT   THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE 


The  tradesman  has  a  civil  look 
(I  've  paid,  impromptu,  for  my  book), 
The  clouds  portend  a  sudden  shower,  — 
I  '11  read  my  purchase  for  an  hour. 

What  have  I  rescued  from  the  shelf  ? 
A  Boswell,  writing  out  himself  ! 
For  though  he  changes  dress  and  name, 
The  man  beneath  is  still  the  same, 
Laughing  or  sad,  by  fits  and  starts, 
One  actor  in  a  dozen  parts, 
And  whatsoe'er  the  mask  may  be, 
The  voice  assures  us,  This  is  he. 

I  say  not  this  to  cry  him  down ; 
I  find  my  Shakespeare  in  his  clown, 
His  rogues  the  selfsame  parent  own; 
Nay  !  Satan  talks  in  Milton's  tone  ! 
Where'er  the  ocean  inlet  strays, 
The  salt  sea  wave  its  source  betrays; 
Where'er  the  queen  of  summer  blows, 
She  tells  the  zephyr,  "  I  'm  the  rose  !  " 

And  his  is  not  the  playwright's  page ; 
His  table  does  not  ape  the  stage; 
What  matter  if  the  figures  seen 
Are  only  shadows  on  a  screen, 
He  finds  in  them  his  lurking  thought, 
And  on  their  lips  the  words  he  sought, 
Like  one  who  sits  before  the  keys 
And  plays  a  tune  himself  to  please. 

And  was  he  noted  in  his  day  ? 

Read,  flattered,  honored  ?     Who  shall  say  ? 


Poor  wreck  of  time  the  wave  has  cast 
To  find  a  peaceful  shore  at  last, 
Once  glorying  in  thy  gilded  name 
And  freighted  deep  with  hopes  of  fame, 
Thy  leaf  is  moistened  with  a  tear, 
The  first  for  many  a  long,  long  year  ! 

For  be  it  more  or  less  of  art 

That  veils  the  lowliest  human  heart 

Where    passion   throbs,    where    friendship 

glows, 

Where  pity's  tender  tribute  flows, 
Where  love  has  lit  its  fragrant  fire, 
And  sorrow  quenched  its  vain  desire, 
For  me  the  altar  is  divine, 
Its  flame,  its  ashes,  — all  are  mine  ! 

And  thou,  my  brother,  as  I  look 
And  see  thee  pictured  in  thy  book, 
Thy  years  on  every  page  confessed 
In  shadows  lengthening  from  the  west, 
Thy  glance  that  wanders,  as  it  sought 
Some  freshly  opening  flower  of  thought, 
Thy  hopeful  nature,  light  and  free, 
I  start  to  find  myself  in  thee  ! 

Come,  vagrant,  outcast,  wretch  forlorn 
In  leather  jerkin  stained  and  torn, 
Whose  talk  has  filled  my  idle  hour 
And  made  me  half  forget  the  shower, 
I  '11  do  at  least  as  much  for  you, 
Your  coat  I  '11  patch,  your  gilt  renew, 
Read  you  —  perhaps  —  some  other  time. 
Not  bad,  my  bargain  !     Price  one  dime  ! 


SONGS    OF   MANY    SEASONS 


1862-1874 


OPENING  THE  WINDOW 

THUS  I  lift  the  sash,  so  long- 
Shut  against  the  flight  of  song; 
All  too  late  for  vain  excuse,  — 
Lo,  my  captive  rhymes  are  loose  ! 

Rhymes  that,  flitting  through  my  brain, 
Beat  against  my  window-pane, 
Some  with  gayly  colored  wings, 
Some,  alas  !  with  venomed  stings. 

Shall  they  bask  in  sunny  rays  ? 
Shall  they  feed  on  sugared  praise  ? 
Shall  they  stick  with  tangled  feet 
On  the  critic's  poisoned  sheet  ? 

Are  the  outside  winds  too  rough  ? 
Is  the  world  not  wide  enough  V 
Go,  my  winged  verse,  and  try,  — 
Go,  like  Uncle  Toby's  fly! 

PROGRAMME 

OCTOBER  7,   1874 

READER  —  gentle  —  if  so  be 
Such  still  live,  and  live  for  me, 
Will  it  please  you  to  be  told 
What  my  tenscore  pages  hold  ? 

Here  are  verses  that  in  spite 

Of  myself  I  needs  must  write, 

Like  the  wine  that  oozes  first 

When  the  unsqueezed  grapes  have  burst. 

Here  are  angry  lines,  "too  hard!  " 
Says  the  soldier,  battle-scarred. 
Could  I  smile  his  scars  away 
I  would  blot  the  bitter  lay, 

Written  with  a  knitted  brow, 
Read  with  placid  wonder  now. 


Throbbed  such  passion  in  my  heart  ? 
Did  his  wounds  once  really  smart  '? 

Here  are  varied  strains  that  sing 
All  the  changes  life  can  bring, 
Songs  when  joyous  friends  have  met, 
Songs  the  mourner's  tears  have  wet. 

See  the  banquet's  dead  bouquet, 
Fair  and  fragrant  in  its  day; 
Do  they  read  the  selfsame  lines, — 
He  that  fasts  and  he  that  dines  ? 

Year  by  year,  like  milestones  placed, 
Mark  the  record  Friendship  traced. 
Prisoned  in  the  walls  of  time 
Life  has  notched  itself  in  rhyme: 

As  its  seasons  slid  along, 
Every  year  a  notch  of  song, 
From  the  June  of  long  ago, 
When  the  rose  was  full  in  blow, 

Till  the  scarlet  sage  has  come 
And  the  cold  chrysanthemum. 
Read,  but  not  to  praise  or  blame; 
Are  not  all  our  hearts  the  same  ? 

For  the  rest,  they  take  their  chance,  — 
Some  may  pay  a  passing  glance; 
Others,  —  well,  they  served  a  turn,  — 
Wherefore  written,  would  you  learn  ? 

Xot  for  glory,  not  for  pelf, 
Not,  be  sure,  to  please  myself, 
Not  for  any  meaner  ends,  — 
Always  "  by  request  of  friends." 

Here  's  the  cousin  of  a  king,  — 
Would  I  do  the  civil  thing  ? 
Here  's  the  first-born  of  a  queen : 
Here  's  a  slant-eyed  Mandarin. 


i86 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS 


Would  I  polish  off  Japan  ? 
Would  I  greet  this  famous  man, 
Prince  or  Prelate,  Sheik  or  Shah  ?  - 
Figaro  c.i  and  Figaro  la  ! 

Would  I  just  this  once  comply  ?  — 
So  they  teased  and  teased  till  I 
(Be  the  truth  at  once  confessed) 
Wavered  —  yielded  —  did  my  best. 

Turn  my  pages,  —  never  mind 
If  you  like  not  all  you  find; 
Think  not  all  the  grains  are  gold 
Sacramento's  sand-banks  hold. 


Every  kernel  has  its  shell, 
Every  chime  its  harshest  bell, 
Every  face  its  weariest  look, 
Every  shelf  its  emptiest  book, 

Every  field  its  leanest  sheaf, 
Every  book  its  dullest  leaf, 
Every  leaf  its  weakest  line,  — 
Shall  it  not  be  so  with  mine  ? 

Best  for  worst  shall  make  amends, 
Find  us,  keep  us,  leave  us  friends 
Till,  perchance,  we  meet  again. 
Benedicite.  — Amen! 


IN   THE   QUIET   DAYS 


AN    OLD-YEAR   SONG 

As  through  the  forest,  disarrayed 

By  chill  November,  late  I  strayed, 

A  lonely  minstrel  of  the  wood 

Was  singing  to  the  solitude: 

I  loved  thy  music,  thus  I  said, 

When   o'er   thy   perch    the     leaves    were 
spread; 

Sweet  was  thy  song,  but  sweeter  now 

Thy  carol  on  the  leafless  bough. 

Sing,  little  bird  !  thy  note  shall  cheer 
The  sadness  of  the  dying  year. 

When  violets  pranked  the  turf  with  blue 
And  morning  filled  their  cups  with  dew, 
Thy  slender  voice  with  rippling  trill 
The  budding  April  bowers  would  fill, 
Nor  passed  its  joyous  tones  away 
When  April  rounded  into  May: 

Thy  life  shall  hail  no  second  dawn,  — 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  spring  is  gone. 

And  I  remember  —  welladay  !  — 

Thy  full-blown  summer  roundelay, 

As  when  behind  a  broidered  screen 

Some  holy  maiden  sings  unseen: 

With  answering  notes  the  woodland  rung, 

And  every  treetop  found  a  tongue. 

How  deep  the  shade  !    the  groves  how 
fair  ! 

Sing,  little  bird  !  the  woods  are  bare. 

The  summer's  throbbing  chant  is  done 

And  mute  the  choral  antiphon; 

The  birds  have  left  the  shivering  pines 


To  flit  among  the  trellised  vines, 
Or  fan  the  air  with  scented  plumes 
Amid  the  love-sick  orange-blooms, 
And  thou  art  here  alone,  —  alone,  — 
,Sing,  little  bird  !  the  rest  have  flown. 

The  snow  has  capped  yon  distant  hill, 
At  morn  the  running  brook  was  still, 
From  driven  herds  the  clouds  that  rise 
Are  like  the  smoke  of  sacrifice ; 
Erelong  the  frozen  sod  shall  mock 
The   ploughshare,    changed     to    stubborn 
rock, 

The    brawling    streams    shall    soon   be 
dumb,  — 

Sing,  little  bird  !  the  frosts  have  come. 

Fast,  fast  the  lengthening  shadows  creep, 
The  songless  fowls  are  half  asleep, 
The  air  grows  chill,  the  setting  sun 
May  leave  thee  ere  thy  song  is  done, 
The  pulse  that  warms  thy  breast  grow  cold, 
Thy  secret  die  with  thee,  untold: 

The  lingering  sunset  still  is  bright,  — 
Sing,  little  bird  !  't  will  soon  be  night. 

DOROTHY    O. 

A   FAMILY   PORTRAIT 

I  cannot  tell  the  story  of  Dorothy  Q-  more 
simply  in  prose  than  I  have  told  it  in  verse, 
but  I  can  add  something-  to  it. 

Dorothy  was  the  daughter  of  Judge  Edmund 
Quincy,  and  the  niece  of  Josiah  Quiney,  junior, 
the  young  patriot  and  orator  who  died  just 
before  the  American  Revolution,  of  which  he 


THE   ORGAN-BLOWER 


187 


was  one  of  the  most  eloquent  and  effective  pro 
moters.  The  son  of  the  latter,  Josiah  Quincy, 
the  first  mayor  of  Boston  bearing1  that  name, 
lived  to  a  great  ag-e,  one  of  the  most  useful  and 
honored  citizens  of  his  time. 

The  canvas  of  the  painting-  was  so  much  de 
cayed  that  it  had  to  be  replaced  by  a  new  one, 
in  doing  which  the  rapier  thrust  was  of  course 
filled  up. 

GRANDMOTHER'S  mother:  her  age,  I  guess, 
Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less; 
Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air; 
Smooth,    square     forehead    with    uprolled 

hair; 

Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed; 
Taper  lingers  and  slender  wrist; 
Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade; 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 

Sits  nnmoving  and  broods  serene. 

Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view,  — 

Look  !     there  's     a    rent    the     light    shines 

through, 

Dark  with  a  century's  fringe  of  dust,  — 
That  was  a  Red-Coat's  rapier-tlirnst  ! 
Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 
Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter,  told. 

Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell,  — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed, 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has  long  been  pressed ; 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright, 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white, 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn,  — 

Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born  ! 

Ay  !  since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 

England's  annals  have  known  her  name; 

And  still  to  the  three-hilled  rebel  town 

Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown, 

For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 

The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray-haired  son. 

O  Damsel  Dorothy  !  Dorothy  Q.! 
Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 
Save  to  daughter  or  son  might  bring,  — 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand, 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land; 
Mother  and  sister  and  child  and  wife 
And  joy  and  sorrow  and  death  and  life  ! 


What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 

Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered  No, 

When  forth  the  tremulous  question  came 

That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman  name, 

And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 

The  bodice  swelled  with  the  bosom's  thrill  ? 

Should  I  be  I,  or  would  it  be 

One  tenth  another,  to  nine  tenths  me  ? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  YES: 
Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with  less; 
But  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 
Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and  blast, 
And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 
That  lives  in  the  babbling  air  so  long  ! 
There  were   tones  in  the  voice   that  whis 
pered  then 
You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred  men. 

0  lady  and  lover,  how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  —  and  here  we  are, 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone,  — 
Edward's  and  Dorothy's  —  all  their  own,  — 
A  goodly  record  for  Time  to  show 

Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago  !  — 
Shall  I  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive 
For   the    tender    whisper    that    bade   rue 
live  ? 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid  ! 

1  will    heal    the   stab    of    the    Red-Coat's 

blade, 
And    freshen    the    gold    of    the    tarnished 

frame, 
And   gild   with  a   rhyme   your   household 

name; 

So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and  bright 
As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's  light, 
And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears 
Through    a    second   youth   of    a   hundred 

years. 


THE    ORGAN-BLOWER 

DEVOUTEST  of  my  Sunday  friends, 

The  patient  Organ-blower  bends; 

I  see  his  figure  sink  and  rise, 

(Forgive     me,     Heaven,     my    wandering 

eyes  !) 

A  moment  lost,  the  next  half  seen, 
His  head  above  the  scanty  screen, 
Still  measuring  out  his  deep  salaams 
Through   quavering    hymns   and    panting 

psalms. 


i88 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS 


No  priest  that  prays  in  gilded  stole, 
To  save  a  rich  man's  mortgaged  soul; 
No  sister,  fresh  from  holy  vows, 
So  humbly  stoops,  so  meekly  bows; 
His  large  obeisance  puts  to  shame 
The  proudest  genuflecting  dame, 
"Whose  Easter  bonnet  low  descends 
With  all  the  grace  devotion  lends. 

O  brother  with  the  supple  spine, 
How  much  we  owe  those  bows  of  thine  ! 
Without  thine  arm  to  lend  the  breeze, 
How  vain  the  finger  on  the  keys  ! 
Though  all  unmatched  the  player's  skill, 
Those   thousand   throats   were   dumb  and 

still: 

Another's  art  may  shape  the  tone, 
The  breath  that  fills  it  is  thine  own. 

Six  days  the  silent  Memnou  waits 
Behind  his  temple's  folded  gates; 
But  when  the  seventh  day's  sunshine  falls 
Through  rainbowed  windows  on  the  walls, 
He  breathes,  he  sings,  he  shouts,  he  fills 
The  quivering  air  with  rapturous  thrills; 
The  roof  resounds,  the  pillars  shake, 
And  all  the  slumbering  echoes  wake ! 

The  Preacher  from  the  Bible-text 
With  weary  words  my  soul  has  vexed 
(Some  stranger,  fumbling  far  astray 
To  find  the  lesson  for  the  day) ; 
He  tells  us  truths  too  plainly  true, 
And  reads  the  service  all  askew,  — 
Why,  why  the  — mischief —  can't  he  look 
Beforehand  in  the  service-book  ? 

But  thou,  with  decent  mien  and  face, 
Art  always  ready  in  thy  place ; 
Thy  strenuous  blast,  whate'er  the  tune, 
As  steady  as  the  strong  monsoon; 
Thy  only  dread  a  leathery  creak, 
Or  small  residual  extra  squeak, 
To  send  along  the  shadowy  aisles 
A  sunlit  wave  of  dimpled  smiles. 

Not  all  the  preaching,  O  my  friend, 
Comes  from  the  church's  pulpit  end  ! 
Not  all  that  bend  the  knee  and  bow 
Yield  service  half  so  true  as  thou  ! 
One  simple  task  performed  aright, 
With  slender  skill,  but  all  thy  might, 
Where  honest  labor  does  its  best, 
And  leaves  the  player  all  the  rest. 


This  many-diapasoued  maze, 

Through  which  the  breath  of  being  strays, 

Whose  music  makes  our  earth  divine, 

Has  work  for  mortal  hands  like  mine. 

My  duty  lies  before  me.     Lo, 

The  lever  there  !     Take  hold  and  blow  ! 

And  He  whose  hand  is  on  the  keys 

Will  play  the  tune  as  He  shall  please. 

AFTER  THE  FIRE 

[The  great  Boston  fire  occurred  November 
9-10,  1872.] 

WHILE  far  along  the  eastern  sky 
I  saw  the  flags  of  Havoc  fly, 
As  if  his  forces  would  assault 
The  sovereign  of  the  starry  vault 
And  hurl  Him  back  the  burning  rain 
That  seared  the  cities  of  the  plain, 
I  read  as  on  a  crimson  page 
The  words  of  Israel's  sceptred  sage :  — 

For  riches  make  them  wings,  and  they 
Do  as  an  eagle  fly  away. 

O  vision  of  that  sleepless  night, 

What  hue  shall  paint  the  mocking  light 

That  burned  and  stained  the  orient  skies 

Where  peaceful  morning  loves  to  rise, 

As  if  the  sun  had  lost  his  way 

And  dawned  to  make  a  second  day,  — 

Above  how  red  with  fiery  glow, 

How  dark  to  those  it  woke  below  ! 

On  roof  and  wall,  on  dome  and  spire, 
Flashed  the  false  jewels  of  the  fire; 
Girt  with  her  belt  of  glittering  panes, 
And  crowned  with  starry -gleaming  vanes, 
Our  northern  queen  in  glory  shone 
With  new-born  splendors  not  her  own, 
And  stood,  transfigured  in  our  eyes, 
A  victim  decked  for  sacrifice  ! 

The  cloud  still  hovers  overhead, 

And  still  the  midnight  sky  is  red; 

As  the  lost  wanderer  strays  alone 

To  seek  the  place  he  called  his  own, 

His  devious  footprints  sadly  tell 

How    changed    the    pathways    known  so 

well; 

I  The  scene,  how  new  !     The  tale,  how  old 
!  Ere  yet  the  ashes  have  grown  cold  ! 


AT   THE   PANTOMIME 


189 


Again  I  read  the  words  that  came 
Writ  in  the  rubric  of  the  tlame: 


Howe'er  we  trust  to  mortal  things, 
Each  hath  its  pair  of  folded  wings; 
Though  long  their  terrors  rest  uuspread 
Their  fatal  plumes  are  never  shed; 
At  last,  at  last,  they  stretch  in  flight, 
And  blot  the  day  and  blast  the  night  ! 

Hope,  only  Hope,  of  all  that  clings 
Around  us,  never  spreads  her  wings; 
Love,  though  he  break  his  earthly  chain, 
Still  whispers  he  will  come  again; 
But  Faith  that  soars  to  seek  the  sky 
Shall  teach  our  half-Hedged  souls  to  fly, 
And  find,  beyond  the  smoke  and  flame, 
The  cloudless  azure  whence  they  came  ! 

AT    THE    PANTOMIME 

iS — :    REWRITTEN*    1874 

THE  house  was  crammed  from  roof  to  floor, 
Heads  piled  on  heads  at  every  door; 
Half  dead  with  August's  seething  heat 
I  crowded  on  and  found  mv  seat, 
My  patience  slightly  out  of  joint, 
My  temper  short  of  boiling-point, 
Not  quite  at  Hate  mankind  «.•>•  such, 
Nor  yet  at  Love  them  overmuch. 

Amidst  the  throng  the  pageant  drew 
Were  gathered  Hebrews  not  a  few, 
Black-bearded,  swarthy,  —  at  their  side 
Dark,  jewelled  women,  orient-eyed: 
If  scarce  a  Christian  hopes  for  grace 
Who  crowds  one  in  his  narrow  place, 
What  will  the  savage  victim  do 
Whose  ribs  are  kneaded  by  a  Jew  ? 

Next  on  my  left  a  breathing  form 
Wedged  up  against  me,  close  and  warm; 
The  beak  that  crowned  the  bistred  face 
Betrayed  the  mould  of  Abraham's  race,  — 
That    coal-black    hair,    that    smoke-brown 

hue,  — 

Ah,  cursed,  unbelieving  Jew  ! 
I  started,  shuddering,  'to  the  right, 
And  squeezed  —  a  second  Israelite  ! 

Then  woke  the  evil  brood  of  rage 
That  slumber,  tongueless,  in  their  cage; 
I  stabbed  in  turn  with  silent  oaths 
The  hook-nosed  kite  of  carrion  clothes, 
The  snaky  usurer,  him  that  crawls 
And  cheats  beneath  the  golden  balls, 


Moses  and  Levi,  all  the  horde, 
Spawn  of  the  race  that  slew  its  Lord. 


Up  came  their  murderous  deeds  of  old, 
The  grisly  story  Chaucer  told, 
And  many  an  ugly  tale  beside 
Of  children  caught  and  crucified; 
I  heard  the  ducat-sweating  thieves 
Beneath  the  Ghetto's  slouching  eaves, 
And,  thrust  beyond  the  tented  green, 
The  lepers  cry,  "  Unclean  !     Unclean  !  " 

The  show  went  on,  but,  ill  at  ease, 

My  sullen  eye  it  could  not  please, 

In  vain  my  conscience  whispered,  "  Shame  ! 

Who  but  their  Maker  is  to  blame  ?  " 

I  thought  of  Judas  and  his  bribe, 

And  steeled  my  soul  against  their  tribe: 

My  neighbors  stirred;  I  looked  again 

Full  on  the  younger  of  the  twain. 

A  fresh  young  cheek  whose  olive  hue 
The  mantling  blood  shows  faintly  through; 
Locks  dark  as  midnight,  that  divide 
And  shade  the  neck  on  either  side; 
Soft,  gentle,  loving  eyes  that  gleam 
Clear  as  a  starlit  mountain  stream;  — 
So  looked  that  other  child  of  Shem, 
The  Maiden's  Boy  of  Bethlehem  ! 

And  thou  couldst  scorn  the  peerless  Llood 
That  flows  unmingled  from  the  Flood,  — 
Thy  scutcheon  spotted  with  the  stains 
Of  Norman  thieves  and  pirate  Danes  ! 
The  New  World's  foundling,  in  thy  pride 
Scowl  on  the  Hebrew  at  thy  side, 
And  lo  !  the  very  semblance  there 
The  Lord  of  Glory  deigned  to  wear ! 

I  see  that  radiant  image  rise, 
The  flowing  hair,  the  pitying  eyes, 
The  faintly  crimsoned  cheek  that  shows 
The  blush  of  Sharon's  opening  rose,  — 
Thy  hands  would  clasp  his  hallowed  feet 
Whose  brethren  soil  thy  Christian  seat, 
Thy  lips  would  press  his  garment's  hem 
That  curl  in  wrathful  scorn  for  them  ! 

A  sudden  mist,  a  watery  screen, 
Dropped  like  a  veil  before  the  scene; 
The  shadow  floated  from  my  soul, 
And  to  my  lips  a  whisper  stole,  — 
"  Thy  prophets  caught  the  Spirit's  flame, 
From  thee  the  Son  of  Mary  came, 
With  thee  the  Father  deigned  to  dwell,  - 
Peace  be  upon  thee,  Israel  !  " 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS 


A  BALLAD  OF   THE    BOSTON 
TEA-PARTY 

The  tax  on  tea,  which  was  considered  so 
odious  and  led  to  the  act  on  which  A  Ballad 
of  the  Boston  Tea  Party  is  founded,  was  but 
a  small  matter,  only  twopence  in  the  pound. 
But  it  involved  a  principle  of  taxation,  to 
which  the  Colonies  would  not  submit.  Their 
objection  was  not  to  the  amount,  but  the  claim. 
The  East  India  Company,  however,  sent  out  a 
number  of  tea-ships  to  different  American  ports, 
three  of  them  to  Boston. 

The  inhabitants  tried  to  send  them  back, 
but  in  vain.  The  captains  of  the  ships  had 
consented,  if  permitted,  to  return  with  their  car 
goes  to  England,  but  the  consignees  refused  to 
discharge  them  from  their  obligations,  the  cus 
tom  house  to  give  them  a  clearance  for  their 
return,  and  the  governor  to  grant  them  a  pass 
port  for  going  by  the  fort.  It  was  easily  seen 
that  the  tea  would  be  gradually  landed  from 
the  ships  lying  so  near  the  town,  and  that  if 
landed  it  would  be  disposed  of,  and  the  pur 
pose  of  establishing  the  monopoly  and  raising 
a  revenue  effected.  To  prevent  the  dreaded 
consequence,  a  number  of  armed  men,  dis 
guised  like  Indians,  boarded  the  ships  and 
threw  their  whole  cargoes  of  tea  into  the  dock. 
About  seventeen  persons  boarded  the  ships  in 
Boston  harbor,  and  emptied  three  hundred  and 
forty-two  chests  of  tea.  Among  these  ''  In 
dians  "  was  Major  Thomas  Melville,  the  same 
who  suggested  to  me  the  poem,  The  Last  Leaf. 

Read  at  a  meeting  of  the  Massachusetts  His 
torical  Society  in  1874. 

No  !  never  such  a  draught  was  poured 

Since  Hebe  served  with  nectar 
The  bright  Olympians  and  their  Lord, 

Her  over-kind  protector,  — 
Since  Father  Noah  squeezed  the  grape 

And  took  to  such  behaving 
As  would  have  shamed  our  grandsire  ape 

Before  the  days  of  shaving,  — 
No  !  ne'er  was  mingled  such  a  draught 

In  palace,  hall,  or  arbor, 
As  freemen  brewed  and  tyrants  quaffed 

That  night  in  Boston  Harbor  ! 
It  kept  King  George  so  long  awake 

His  brain  at  last  got  addled, 
It  made  the  nerves  of  Britain  shake, 

With  sevenscore  millions  saddled; 
Before  that  bitter  cup  was  drained, 

Amid  the  roar  of  cannon, 
The  Western  war-cloud's  crimson  stained 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon; 


Full  many  a  six-foot  grenadier 

The  flattened  grass  had  measured, 
And  many  a  mother  many  a  year 

Her  tearful  memories  treasured ; 
Fast  spread  the  tempest's  darkening  pall, 

The  mighty  realms  were  troubled, 
The  storm  broke  loose,  but  first  of  all 

The  Boston  teapot  bubbled  ! 

An  evening  party,  —  only  that, 

No  formal  invitation, 
No  gold-laced  coat,  no  stiff  cravat, 

No  feast  in  contemplation, 
No  silk-robed  dames,  no  fiddling  band, 

No  flowers,  no  songs,  no  dancing,  — 
A  tribe  of  red  men,  axe  in  hand,  — 

Behold  the  guests  advancing  ! 
How  fast  the  stragglers  join  the  throng, 

From  stall  and  workshop  gathered  ! 
The  lively  barber  skips  along 

And  leaves  a  chin  half-lathered; 
The  smith  has  flung  his  hammer  down,  — 

The  horseshoe  still  is  glowing; 
The  truant  tapster  at  the  Crown 

Has  left  a  beer-cask  flowing; 
The  cooper's  boys  have  dropped  the  adze, 

And  trot  behind  their  master; 
Up  run  the  tarry  ship-yard  lads,  — 

The  crowd  is  hurrying  faster,  — 
Out  from  the  Millpond's  purlieus  gush 

The  streams  of  white-faced  millers, 
And  down  their  slippery  alleys  rush 

The  lusty  young  Fort-Hillers ; 
The  rope  walk  lends  its  'prentice  crew,  — 

The  tories  seize  the  omen: 
"  Ay,  boys,  you  '11  soon  have  work  to  do 

For  England's  rebel  foemen, 
'  King  Hancock,'  Adams,  and  their  gang, 

That  fire  the  mob  with  treason,  — 
When  these  we  shoot  and  those  we  hang 

The  town  will  come  to  reason." 

On  —  on  to  where  the  tea-ships  ride  ! 

And  now  their  ranks  are  forming,  — 
A  rush,  and  up  the  Dartmouth's  side 

The  Mohawk  band  is  swarming  ! 
See  the  fierce  natives  !     What  a  glimpse 

Of  paint  and  fur  and  feather, 
As  all  at  once  the  full-grown  imps 

Light  on  the  deck  together  ! 
A  scarf  the  pigtail's  secret  keeps, 

A  blanket  hides  the  breeches,  — 
And  out  the  cursed  cargo  leaps, 

And  overboard  it  pitches  ! 


TO    CANAAN 


191 


O  woman,  at  the  evening  board 

So  gracious,  sweet,  and  purring, 
So  happy  while  the  tea  is  poured,  « 

So  blest  while  spoons  are  stirring, 
What  martyr  can  compare  with  thee, 

The  mother,  wife,  or  daughter, 
That  night,  instead  of  best  Bohea, 

Condemned  to  milk  and  water  ! 

Ah,  little  dreams  the  quiet  dame 

Who  plies  with  rock  and  spindle 
The  patient  flax,  how  great  a  flame 

Yon  little  spark  shall  kindle  ! 
The  lurid  morning  shall  reveal 

A  fire  no  king  can  smother 
Where  British  flint  and  Boston  steel 

Have  clashed  against  each  other  ! 
Old  charters  shrivel  in  its  track, 

His  Worship's  bench  has  crumbled, 
It  climbs  and  clasps  the  union-jack, 

Its  blazoned  pomp  is  humbled, 
The  flags  go  down  on  land  and  sea 

Like  corn  before  the  reapers; 
So  burned  the  fire  that  brewed  the  tea 

That  Boston  served  her  keepers  ! 

The  waves  that  wrought  a  century's  wreck 

Have  rolled  o'er  whig  and  tory; 
The  Mohawks  on  the  Dartmouth's  deck 

Still  live  in  song  and  story; 
The  waters  in  the  rebel  bay 

Have  kept  the  tea-leaf  savor; 
Our  old  North- Enders  in  their  spray 

Still  taste  a  Hyson  flavor; 


And  Freedom's  teacup  still  o'erflows 
With  ever  fresh  libations, 

To  cheat  of  slumber  all  her  foes 
And  cheer  the  wakening  nations  ! 


NEARING  THE  SNOW-LINE 

1870 

SLOW  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale, 
I  leave  the  bright  enamelled  zones  be 
low; 
No  more  for  me  their  beauteous  bloom 

shall  glow, 
Their  lingering  sweetness  load  the  morning 

gale; 
Few  are   the    slender   flowerets,  scentless, 

pale, 
That  on  their  ice-clad  stems  all  trembling 

blow 

Along  the  margin  of  unmelting  snow; 
Yet  with  unsaddened  voice  thy  verge  I  hail, 
White  realm  of  peace   above  the  flower 
ing  line; 
|    Welcome    thy    frozen     domes,    thy    rocky 

spires  ! 
O'er     thee     undimmed    the     moon-girt 

planets  shine, 

On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  rilled  the   air  with  smoke  of  vain  de 
sires, 

And  all  the  unclouded  blue  of  heaven  is 
thine  ! 


IN   WAR   TIMK 


TO  CANAAN 


A    PURITAN     WAR-SONG 
AUGUST    12,    1862 

This  poem,  published  anonymously  in  the 
Boston  Evening  Transcript,  was  claimed  by 
several  persons,  three,  if  I  remember  correctly, 
whose  names  I  have  or  have  had,  but  never 
thought  it  worth  while  to  publish. 

WHERE  are  you  going,  soldiers, 
With  banner,  gun,  and  sword  ? 

We  're  marching  South  to  Canaan 
To  battle  for  the  Lord  ! 


What  Captain  leads  your  armies 

Along  the  rebel  coasts  ? 
The  Mighty  One  of  Israel, 
His  name  is  Lord  of  Hosts  ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  blow  before  the  heathen  walk 
The  trumpets  of  the  North  ! 

What  flag  is  this  you  carry 

Along  the  sea  and  shore  ? 
The  same  our  grandsires  lifted  up,  — 

The  same  our  fathers  bore  ! 
In  many  a  battle's  tempest 

It  shed  the  crimson  rain,  — 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS 


What  God  lias  woven  in  his  loom 
Let  no  mail  rend  in  twain  ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  plant  upon  the  rebel  towers 
The  banners  of  the  North  ! 

What  troop  is  this  that  follows, 

All  armed  with  picks  and  spades  ? 
These  are  the  swarthy  bondsmen, — 

The  iron-skin  brigades  ! 
They  '11  pile  up  Freedom's  breastwork, 

They  '11  scoop  out  rebels'  graves; 
Who  then  will  be  their  owner 
And  march  them  off  for  slaves  ? 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  strike  upon  the  captive's  chain 
The  hammers  of  the  North  ! 

What  song  is  this  you  're  singing  ? 

The  same  that  Israel  sung 
When  Moses  led  the  mighty  choir, 

And  Miriam's  timbrel  rung  ! 
To  Canaan  !     To  Canaan  ! 

The  priests  and  maidens  cried: 
To  Canaan  !     To  Canaan  ! 
The  people's  voice  replied. 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  thunder  through  its  adder  dens 
The  anthems  of  the  North  ! 

When  Canaan's  hosts  are  scattered, 

And  all  her  walls  lie  flat, 
What  follows  next  in  order  ? 
The  Lord  will  see  to  that ! 
We  '11  break  the  tyrant's  sceptre,  — 

We  '11  build  the  people's  throne,  — 
When  half  the  world  is  Freedom's, 
Then  all  the  world  's  our  own  ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  sweep  the  rebel  threshing-floors, 
A  whirlwind  from  the  North  ! 


"THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD,  I  OF 
FER  THEE  THREE  THINGS" 

1862 

IN  poisonous  dens,  where  traitors  hide 

Like  bats  that  fear  the  day, 
While  all  the  land  our  charters  claim 


Is  sweating  blood  and  breathing  flame, 
Dead  to  their  country's  woe  and  shame, 
The  recreants  whisper  STAY  ! 

In  peaceful  homes,  where  patriot  fires 

On  Love's  own  altars  glow, 
The  mother  hides  her  trembling  fear, 
The  wife,  the  sister,  checks  a  tear, 
To  breathe  the  parting  word  of  cheer, 

Soldier  of  Freedom,  Go  ! 

In  halls  where  Luxury  lies  at  ease, 

And  Mammon  keeps  his  state, 
Where  flatterers  fawn  and  menials  crouch, 
The  dreamer,  startled  from  his  couch, 
Wrings  a  few  counters  from  his  pouch, 
And  murmurs  faintly  WAIT  ! 

In  weary  camps,  on  trampled  plains 

That  ring  with  fife  and  drum, 
The  battling  host,  whose  harness  gleams 
Along  the  crimson-flowing  streams, 
Calls,  like  a  warning  voice  in  dreams, 

We  want  you,  Brother  !     COME  ! 

Choose  ye  whose  bidding  ye  will  do,  — 

To  go,  to  wait,  to  stay  ! 
Sons  of  the  Freedom-loving  town, 
Heirs  of  the  Fathers'  old  renown, 
The  servile  yoke,  the  civic  crown, 

Await  your  choice  TO-DAY  ! 

The  stake  is  laid  !     O  gallant  youth 

With  yet  unsilvered  brow, 
If   Heaven   should   lose  and   Hell  should 

win, 

On  whom  shall  lie  the  mortal  sin, 
That  cries  aloud,  It  might  have  been? 

God  calls  you  —  answer  NOW. 


NEVER   OR   NOW 

AN   APPEAL 
1862 

LISTEN,   young   heroes  !    your  country    is 

calling  ! 
Time  strikes  the  hour  for  the  brave  and 

the  true  ! 
Now,  while  the  foremost  are  fighting  and 

falling, 

Fill  up  the  ranks  that  have  opened  for 
you  ! 


ONE   COUNTRY 


'93 


You  whom  the  fathers  made  free  and  de 
fended, 
Stain  not  the  scroll  that  emblazons  their 

fame  ! 

You  whose  fair  heritage  spotless  descended, 
Leave  not  your  children  a  birthright  of 
shame  ! 

Stay    not    for    questions    while    Freedom 

stands  gasping  ! 
Wait  not  till  Honor  lies  wrapped  in  his 

pall! 
Brief  the  lips'  meeting  be,  swift  the  hands' 

clasping,  — 

"  Oft'  for  the  wars  !  "  is  enough  for  them 
all  ! 

Break    from  the  arms  that  would  fondly 


Hark  !    't  is  the  bugle-blast,  sabres  are 

drawn  ! 
Mothers  shall  pray  for  you,  fathers  shall 

bless  you, 
Maidens  shall  weep  for  you   when  you 

are  gone  ! 

Xever  or  now  !  cries  the  blood  of  a  nation, 
Poured  on  the  turf  where  the  red  rose 

should  bloom; 

Now   is    the  day  and   the  hour   of    salva 
tion,  — 

Never   or  now !    peals    the    trumpet    of 
doom  ! 

Never  or  now  !   roars  the  hoarse-throated 

cannon 
Through  the  black  canopy  blotting  the 

skies; 

Never  or  now!    flaps  the  shell-blasted  pen 
non 

O'er  the  deep  ooze  where  the  Cumber 
land  lies  ! 

From  the  foul  dens  where  our  brothers  are 

dying, 
Aliens   and   foes    in   the   land   of    their 

birth,  — 
From  the  rank  swamps  where  our  martyrs 

are  lying 
Pleading  in  vain  for  a  handful  of  earth,  — 

From  the  hot  plains  where  they  perish  out 
numbered, 

Furrowed  and  ridged  by  the  battle-field's 
plough, 


Comes  the  loud  summons;    too  long   you 

have  slumbered, 

Hear  the  last  Angel-trump,  —  Never  or 
Now  ! 


HYMN 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  GREAT  CENTRAL  FAIR 
IN    PHILADELPHIA,    1864 

[This  hymn  was  to  have  been  sung-  at  the 
Inaugural  Ceremonies  June  7,  but  an  accident  to 
the  singers'  platform  prevented  its  use  in  that 
form.  ] 

FATHER,  send  on  Earth  again 

Peace  and  good-will  to  men; 

Yet,  while  the  weary  track  of  life 

Leads  thy  people  through  storm  and  strife, 

Help  us  to  walk  therein. 

Guide  us  through  the  perilous  path; 
Teach  us  love  that  tempers  wrath; 
Let  the  fountain  of  mercy  flow 
Alike  for  helpless  friend  and  foe, 
Children  all  of  Thine. 

God  of  grace,  hear  our  call; 

Bless  our  gifts,  Giver  of  all; 

The  wounded  heal,  the  captive  restore, 

And  make  us  a  nation  evermore 

Faithful  to  Freedom  and  Thee. 


ONE    COUNTRY 

1865 

OXE  country  !     Treason's  writhing  asp 

Struck  madly  at  her  girdle's  clasp, 

And  Hatred  wrenched  witli  might  and  main 

j   To  rend  its  welded  links  in  twain, 
While  Mammon  hugged  his  golden  calf 

I   Content  to  take  one  broken  half, 
While  thankless  churls  stood  idly  by 
And  heard  unmoved  a  nation's  cry  ! 

One  country  !     "  Nay,''  — the  tyrant  crew 
Shrieked   from  their  dens,  —  "  it   shall  be 

two  ! 

Ill  bodes  to  us  this  monstrous  birth, 
That  scowls  on  all  the  thrones  of  earth, 
Too  broad  yon  starry  cluster  shines, 
Too  proudly  tower  the  New-World  pines, 
Tear  down  the  '  banner  of  the  free,' 
And  cleave  their  land  from  sea  to  sea  !  " 


194 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS 


One  country  still,  though  foe  and  "friend  " 
Our  seamless  empire  strove  to  rend; 
Safe  !  safe  !  though  all  the  fiends  of  hell 
Join  the  red  murderers'  battle-yell  ! 
What  though  the  lifted  sabres  gleam, 
The  cannons  frown  by  shore  and  stream,  — 
The  sabres  clash,  the  cannons  thrill, 
In  wild  accord,  One  country  still ! 

One  country  !  in  her  stress  and  strain 
We  heard  the  breaking  of  a  chain  ! 
Look  where  the  conquering  Nation  swings 
Her  iron  flail,  —  its  shivered  rings  ! 
Forged  by  the  rebels'  crimson  hand, 
That  bolt  of  wrath  shall  scourge  the  land 
Till  Peace  proclaims  on  sea  and  shore 
One  Country  now  and  evermore  ! 

GOD    SAVE   THE   FLAG  ! 
1865 

WASHED  in  the  blood  of  the  brave  and  the 
blooming, 

Snatched  from  the  altars  of  insolent  foes, 
Burning  with  star- fires,  but  never  consuming, 

Flash  its  broad  ribbons  of  lily  and  rose. 

Vainly  the  prophets  of  Baal  would  rend  it, 
Vainly  his  worshippers  pray  for  its  fall; 

Thousands  have  died  for  it,  millions  defend 

it, 
Emblem  of  justice  and  mercy  to  all: 

Justice  that  reddens  the  sky  with  her  terrors, 
Mercy  that  comes  with  her  white-handed 

train, 

Soothing  all  passions,  redeeming  all  errors, 
Sheathing   the    sabre   and  breaking  the 
chain. 

Borne  on  the  deluge  of  old  usurpations, 
Drifted  our  Ark  o'er  the  desolate  seas, 

Bearing  the  rainbow  of  hope  to  the  nations, 
Torn  from  the  storm-cloud  and  flung  to 
the  breeze  ! 

God  bless  the  Flag  and  its  loyal  defenders, 
While  its  broad  folds  o'er  the  battle-field 

wave, 

Till  the  dim  star-wreath  rekindle  its  splen 
dors, 

Washed  from  its  stains  in  the  blood  of 
the  brave  ! 


HYMN 

AFTER    THE    EMANCIPATION    PROCLAMA 
TION 

1865 

GIVER  of  all  that  crowns  our  days, 
With  grateful  hearts  we  sing  thy  praise; 
Through  deep  and  desert  led  by  Thee, 
Our  promised  land  at  last  we  see. 

Ruler  of  Nations,  judge  our  cause  ! 
If  we  have  kept  thy  holy  laws, 
The  sons  of  Belial  curse  in  vain 
The  day  that  rends  the  captive's  chain. 

Thou  God  of  vengeance  !     Israel's  Lord  ! 
Break  in  their  grasp  the  shield  and  sword, 
And  make  thy  righteous  judgments  known 
Till  all  thy  foes  are  overthrown  ! 

Then,  Father,  lay  thy  healing  hand 
In  mercy  on  our  stricken  land ; 
Lead  all  its  wanderers  to  the  fold, 
And  be  their  Shepherd  as  of  old. 

So  shall  one  Nation's  song  ascend 
To  Thee,  our  Ruler,  Father,  Friend, 
While  Heaven's  wide  arch  resounds  again 
With  Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 


HYMN 

FOR    THE    FAIR    AT    CHICAGO 
1865 

O  GOD  !  in  danger's  darkest  hour, 

In  battle's  deadliest  field, 
Thy  name  has  been  our  Nation's  tower, 

Thy  truth  her  help  and  shield. 

Our  lips  should  fill  the  air  with  praise, 

Nor  pay  the  debt  we  owe, 
So  high  above  the  songs  we  raise 

The  floods  of  mercy  flow. 

Yet  Thou  wilt  hear  the  prayer  we  speak, 
The  song  of  praise  we  sing,  — 

Thy  children,  who  thine  altar  seek 
Their  grateful  gifts  to  bring. 


FREEDOM,    OUR   QUEEN 


Thine  altar  is  the  sufferer's  bed, 
The  home  of  woe  and  pain, 

The  soldier's  turfy  pillow,  red 
With  battle's  crimson  rain. 

No  smoke  of  burning  stains  the  air, 

No  incense-clouds  arise; 
Thy  peaceful  servants,  Lord,  prepare 

A  bloodless  sacrifice. 

Lo  !  for  our  wounded  brothers'  need, 
We  bear  the  wine  and  oil ; 

For  us  they  faint,  for  us  they  bleed, 
For  them  our  gracious  toil  ! 

O  Father,  bless  the  gifts  we  bring  ! 

Cause  Thou  thy  face  to  shine, 
Till  every  nation  owns  her  King, 

And  all  the  earth  is  thine. 


UNDER  THE  WASHINGTON  ELM, 
CAMBRIDGE 

APRIL    27,    lS6l 

EIGHTY  years  have  passed,  and  more, 
Since  under  the  brave  old  tree 
Our  fathers  gathered  in  arms,  and  swore 
They  would  follow  the  sign  their  banners 

bore, 
And  fight  till  the  land  was  free. 

Half  of  their  work  was  done, 

Half  is  left  to  do,  — 

Cambridge,  and  Concord,  and  Lexington  ! 
When  the  battle  is  fought  and  won, 

What  shall  be  told  of  you  ? 

Hark  !  —  't  is  the  south-wind  moans,  — 

Who  are  the  martyrs  down  ? 
Ah,  the  marrow  was  true  in  your  children's 

bones 
That  sprinkled  with  blood  the  cursed  stones 

Of  the  murder-haunted  town  ! 

What  if  the  storm-clouds  blow  ? 

What  if  the  green  leaves  fall  ? 
Better  the  crashing  tempest's  throe 
Than  the  army  of  worms  that  gnawed  be 
low; 

Trample  them  one  and  all  ! 


Then,  when  the  battle  is  won, 
And  the  land  from  traitors  free, 
Our  children  shall  tell  of  the  strife  begun 
When  Liberty's  second  April  sun 
Was  briffht  on  our  brave  old  tree  ! 


FREEDOM,    OUR   QUEEN 

LAND  where  the  banners  wave  last  in  the 

sun, 

Blazoned  with  star-clusters,  many  in  one, 
Floating  o'er  prairie  and  mountain  and  sea; 
Hark  !  't  is   the  voice    of   thy  children   to 

thee  ! 

Here  at  thine  altar  our  vows  we  renew 
Still  in  thy  cause  to  be  loyal  and  true, — 
True  to  thy  Hag  on  the  field  and  the  wave, 
Living  to  honor  it,  dying  to  save  ! 

Mother  of  heroes  !  if  perfidy's  blight 
Fall  on  a  star  in  thy  garland  of  light, 
Sound  but  one  bugle-blast !  Lo  !  at  the 


Armies  all  panoplied  wheel  into  line  ! 

Hope  of  the  world  !  thou  hast  broken  its 
chains,  — 

Wear  thy  bright  arms  while  a  tyrant  re 
mains, 

Stand  for  the  right  till  the  nations  shall 
own 

Freedom  their  sovereign,  with  Law  for  her 
throne  ! 

Freedom  !  sweet  Freedom  !  our  voices  re 
sound, 

Queen  by  God's  blessing,  unsceptred,  un 
crowned  ! 

Freedom,  sweet  Freedom,  our  pulses  re 
peat, 

Warm  with  her  life-blood,  as  long  as  they 
beat  ! 

Fold   the    broad   banner-stripes    over   her 

breast,  — 
Crown  her  with  star-jewels  Queen  of  the 

West  ! 

Farth  for  her  heritage,  God  for  her  friend, 
She    shall   reign    over   us,    world    without 

end  ! 


196 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS 


ARMY   HYMN 

"  OLD    HUNDRED  " 

O  LORD  of  Hosts  !     Almighty  King  ! 
Behold  the  sacrifice  we  bring  ! 
To  every  arm  thy  strength  impart, 
Thy  spirit  shed  through  every  heart  ! 

Wake  in  our  breasts  the  living  fires, 
The  holy  faith  that  warmed  our  sires; 
Thy  hand  hath  made  our  Nation  free; 
To  die  for  her  is  serving  Thee. 

Be  Thou  a  pillared  flame  to  show 
The  midnight  snare,  the  silent  foe; 
And  when  the  battle  thunders  loud, 
Still  guide  us  in  its  moving  cloud. 

God  of  all  Nations  !     Sovereign  Lord  ! 
In  thy  dread  name  we  draw  the  sword, 
We  lift  the  starry  flag  on  high 
That  fills  with  light  our  stormy  sky. 

From  treason's  rent,  from  murder's  stain, 
Guard    Thou    its    folds  till   Peace    shall 

reign,  — 

Till  fort  and  field,  till  shore  and  sea, 
Join  our  loud  anthem,  PRAISE  TO  THEE  ! 


PARTING   HYMN 

" DUNDEE " 

FATHER  of  Mercies,  Heavenly  Friend, 

We  seek  thy  gracious  throne; 
To  Thee  our  faltering  prayers  ascend, 

Our  fainting  hearts  are  known  ! 

From   blasts   that   chill,   from    suns    that 
smite, 

From  every  plague  that  harms; 
In  camp  and  march,  in  siege  and  fight, 

Protect  our  men-at-arms  ! 

Though  from  our  darkened  lives  they  take 
What  makes  our  life  most  dear, 

We  yield  them  for  their  country's  sake 
With  no  relenting  tear. 

Our  blood  their  flowing  veins  will  shed, 
Their  wounds  our  breasts  will  share; 

Oh,  save  us  from  the  woes  we  dread, 
Or  grant  us  strength  to  bear  ! 


Let  each  unhallowed  cause  that  brings 

The  stern  destroyer  cease, 
Thy  flaming  angel  fold  his  wings, 

And  seraphs  whisper  Peace  ! 

Thine  are  the  sceptre  and  the  sword, 
Stretch  forth  thy  mighty  hand,  — 

Reign  Thou  our  kingless  nation's  Lord, 
Rule  Thou  our  throneless  land  ! 


THE    FLOWER    OF    LIBERTY 

WHAT  flower  is  this  that  greets  the  morn, 
Its  hues  from  Heaven  so  freshly  born  ? 
With  burning  star  and  flaming  band 
It  kindles  all  the  sunset  land: 
Oh  tell  us  what  its  name  may  be,  — 
Is  this  the  Flower  of  Liberty  ? 
It  is  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

In  savage  Nature's  far  abode 

Its  tender  seed  our  fathers  sowed ; 

The  storm-winds  rocked  its  swelling  bud, 

Its   opening    leaves    were    streaked   with 

blood, 

Till  lo  !  earth's  tyrants  shook  to  see 
The  full-blown  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 
Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

Behold  its  streaming  rays  unite, 

One  mingling  flood  of  braided  light,  — 

The  red  that  fires  the  Southern  rose, 

With  spotless  white  from  Northern  snows, 

And,  spangled  o'er  its  azure,  see 

The  sister  Stars  of  Liberty  ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

The  blades  of  heroes  fence  it  round, 
Where'er  it  springs  is  holy  ground ; 
From  tower  and  dome  its  glories  spread; 
It  waves  where  lonely  sentries  tread; 
It  makes  the  land  as  ocean  free, 
And  plants  an  empire  on  the  sea  ! 
Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

Thy  sacred  leaves,  fair  Freedom's  flower, 
Shall  ever  float  on  dome  and  tower, 
To  all  their  heavenly  colors  true, 
In  blackening  frost  or  crimson  dew,  — 


THE   SWEET   LITTLE   MAN 


197 


And  God  love  us  as  we  love  thee, 
Thrice  holy  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 
Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  FLOWER  OF  LIBERTY  ! 


THE  SWEET  LITTLE  MAN 

DEDICATED    TO    THE     STAY-AT-HOME 
RANGERS 

Now,  while  our  soldiers  are  fighting  our 

battles, 

Each  at  his  post  to  do  all  that  he  can, 
Down  among  rebels  and  contraband  chat 

tels, 
What  are  you  doing,  my  sweet  little  man  ? 

All  the  brave  boys  under  canvas  are  sleep 

ing, 
All  of  them  pressing  to  march  with  the 

van, 
Far  from  the  home  where  their  sweethearts 

are  weeping; 

What  are  you   waiting  for,  sweet  little 
man  ? 

You  with  the  terrible  warlike  mustaches, 

Fit  for  a  colonel  or  chief  of  a  clan, 
You  with  the  waist  made  for  sword-belts 

and  sashes, 

Where   are  your  shoulder-straps,  sweet 
little  man  ? 


him     the    buttonless    crarment    of 


Cover  his  face  lest  it  freckle  and  tan; 
Muster  the   Apron-String  Guards    on   the 

Common, 
That    is  the   corps  for    the  sweet  little 

man  ! 

Give  him  for  escort  a  file  of  young  misses, 
Eacli  of  them  armed  with  a  deadly  rattan; 
They  shall  defend  him  from  laughter  and 

hisses, 

Aimed  by  low  boys  at   the  sweet  little 
man. 

All  the  fair  maidens  about  him  shall  cluster, 
Pluck   the  white   feathers  from   bonnet 

and  fan, 
Make    him    a   plume   like    a   turkey-wing 

duster,  — 
That  is  the  crest  for  the  sweet  little  man  ! 


Oh,  but  the  Apron-String  Guards  are  the 

fellows  ! 

Drilling  each  day  since  our  troubles  be 
gan,  — 
"  Handle  your  walking-sticks  !  "  "  Shoulder 

umbrellas  !  " 
That  is  the  style  for  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

Have  we  a  nation  to  save  ?     In  the  first 

place 

Saving  ourselves  is  the  sensible  plan,  — 
Surely  the  spot  where  there  's  shooting  's 

the  worst  place 

Where  I  can  stand,  says  the  sweet  little 
man. 

Catch  me  confiding  my  person  with  stran 
gers  ! 
Think  how  the    cowardly  Bull-Runners 

ran  ! 

In  the  brigade  of  the  Stay-at-Home  Rangers 
Marches  my  corps,  says  the  sweet  little 
man. 

Such  was  the  stuff  of  the  Malakoff-takers, 
Such  were  the  soldiers    that  scaled  the 

Redan; 
Truculent     housemaids    and    bloodthirsty 

Quakers, 
Brave  not  the  wrath  of  the  sweet  little 


Yield  him  the  sidewalk,  ye  nursery  maid 
ens  ! 
Sauce     qui    pent  I     Bridget,    and    right 

about  !  Ann;  — 

Fierce  as  a  shark  in  a  school  of  menhadens, 
See  him  advancing,  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

When    the    red  flails  of   the  battle-field's 

threshers 
Beat  out  the  continent's  wheat  from  its 

bran, 

While  the  wind  scatters  the  chaffy  seceshers, 
What  will    become    of    our  sweet  little 
man? 

When  the  brown  soldiers  come  back  from 

the  borders, 
How  will  he  look  while  his  features  they 

scan  ? 
How  will  he  feel  when  he  gets  marching 

orders, 

Signed   by   his  lady  love  ?  sweet   little 
man  ! 


198 


SONGS   OF   MANY    SEASONS 


Fear  not  for  him,  though  the  rebels  expect 

him,  — 

Life  is  too  precious  to  shorten  its  span; 
Woman  her  broomstick  shall  raise  to  pro 
tect  him, 

Will  she   not  fight  for  the  sweet  little 
man  ? 

Now  then,  nine  cheers  for  the  Stay-at-Home 

Ranger  ! 
Blow  the  great  fish-horn  and  beat   the 

big  pan  ! 
First  in  the  field  that  is   farthest  from 

danger, 

Take   your  white-feather  plume,  sweet 
little  man  ! 

UNION  AND  LIBERTY 

FLAG  of  the  heroes  who  left  us  their  glory, 
Borne  through  their  battle-fields'  thun 
der  and  flame, 

Blazoned  in  song  and  illumined  in  story, 
Wave  o'er  us  all  who  inherit  their  fame  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain 

to  shore, 

While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry,  — 
UNION  AND  LIBERTY  !  ONE  EVERMORE  ! 

Light  of  our  firmament,  guide  of  our  Na 
tion, 
Pride  of  her  children,  and  honored  afar, 


Let  the  wide  beams  of  thy  full  constellation 
Scatter  each   cloud   that   would  darken 

a  star  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Empire  unsceptred  !  what  foe  shall  assail 

thee, 

Bearing  the  standard  of  Liberty's  van  ? 
Think  not  the  God  of  thy  fathers  shall  fail 

thee, 
Striving  with  men  for  the  birthright  of 

man  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Yet  if,  by  madness  and  treachery  blighted, 
Dawns   the  dark  hour  when  the  sword 

thou  must  draw, 

Then  with  the  arms  of  thy  millions  united, 
Smite  the  bold  traitors  to  Freedom  and 

Law  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Lord  of  the  Universe  !  shield  us  and  guide 

us, 
Trusting  Thee  always,  through  shadow 

and  sun  ! 

Thou  hast  united  us,  who  shall  divide  us  ? 
Keep  us,  oh  keep  us  the  MANY  IN  ONE  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain 

to  shore, 

While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry,  — 
UNION  AND  LIBERTY  !  ONE  EVERMORE  ! 


SONGS   OF   WELCOME   AND   FAREWELL 


AMERICA  TO  RUSSIA 

AUGUST  5,  1866 

Read  by  Hon.  G.  V.  Fox  at  a  dinner  given  to 
the  Mission  from  the  United  States,  St.  Peter- 
burg4. 

THOUGH  watery  deserts  hold  apart 
The  worlds  of  East  and  West, 

Still  beats  the  selfsame  human  heart 
In  each  proud  Nation's  breast. 

Our  floating  turret  tempts  the  main 
And  dares  the  howling  blast 


To  clasp  more  close  the  golden  chain 
That  long  has  bound  them  fast. 

In  vain  the  gales  of  ocean  sweep, 

In  vain  the  billows  roar 
That  chafe  the  wild  and  stormy  steep 

Of  storied  Elsinore. 

She  comes  !     She  comes  !  her  banners  dip 

In  Neva's  flashing  tide, 
With  greetings  on  her  cannon's  lip, 

The  storm-god's  iron  bride  ! 

Peace  garlands  with  the  olive-bough 
Her  thunder-bearing  tower, 


AT   THE   BANQUET   TO   THE   GRAND    DUKE   ALEXIS      199 


And  plants  before  her  cleaving  prow 
The  sea- foam's  milk-white  flower. 

Xo  prairies  heaped  their  garnered  store 

To  fill  her  sunless  hold, 
Not  rich  Nevada's  gleaming  ore 

Its  hidden  caves  infold, 

But  lightly  as  the  sea-bird  swings 

She  floats  the  depths  above, 
A  breath  of  flame  to  lend  her  wings, 

Her  freight  a  people's  love  ! 

When  darkness  hid  the  starry  skies 

In  war's  long  winter  night, 
One  ray  still  cheered  our  straining  eyes, 

The  far-off  Northern  light  ! 

And  now  the  friendly  rays  return 

From  lights  that  glow  afar, 
Those    clustered    lamps    of    Heaven    that 
burn 

Around  the  Western  Star. 

A  nation's  love  in  tears  and  smiles 

We  bear  across  the  sea, 
O  Neva  of  the  banded  isles, 

We  moor  our  hearts  in  thee  ! 


WELCOME     TO     THE     GRAND 
DUKE  ALEXIS 

MUSIC    BALL,    DECEMBER    6,    1 87 1 

Sung-  to  the  Russian  national  air  by  the  chil 
dren  of  the  public  schools. 

SHADOWED  so  long  by  the  storm-cloud  of 

danger, 
Thou   whom  the  prayers  of  an  empire 

defend, 
Welcome,  thrice    welcome  !    but   not  as   a 

stranger, 

Come  to  the  nation  that  calls  thee  its 
friend  ! 

Bleak   are   our  shores  with   the  blasts  of 

December, 

Fettered  and  chill  is  the  rivulet's  flow; 
Throbbing  and  warm  are  the  hearts  that 

remember 

Who  was  our  friend  when  the  world  was 
our  foe. 


Look  on  the  lips  that  are  smiling  to  greet 

thee, 
See  the  fresh  flowers  that  a  people  has 

strewn: 
Count  them  thy  sisters  and  brothers  that 

meet  thee; 

Guest  of  the  Nation,  her  heart  is  thine 
own  ! 

Fires  of  the  North,  in  eternal  communion, 
Blend  your  broad  flashes  with  evening's 

bright  star  ! 
God  bless  the  Empire  that  loves  the  Great 

Laiion; 

Strength  to  her  people  !     Long  life  to 
the  Czar  ! 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE 
GRAND  DUKE  ALEXIS 

DECEMBER   9,   1871 

ONE  word  to  the  guest  we  have  gathered 
to  greet  ! 

The  echoes  are  longing  that  word  to  re 
peat,  — 

It  springs  to  the  lips  that  are  waiting  to  part, 

For  its  syllables  spell  themselves  first  in 
the  heart. 

Its    accents  may  vary,  its    sound  may  be 

strange, 
But  it  bears  a  kind  message  that  nothing 

can  change; 

The  dwellers  by  Neva  its  meaning  can  tell, 
For  the  smile,  its  interpreter,  shows  it  full 

well. 

That  word  !     How  it  gladdened  the  Pilgrim 

of  yore 
As  he  stood  in  the  snow  on  the  desolate 

shore  ! 
When  the  shout  of  the  sagamore  startled 

his  ear 
In  the  phrase  of  the  Saxon,  't  was  music 

to  hear  ! 

Ah,  little  could  Samoset  offer  our  sire,  — 
The  cabin,  the  corn-cake,  the  seat  by  the 

fire; 
He  had  nothing  to  give,  —  the  poor  lord 

of  the  land,  — 
But  he  gave  him  a  WELCOME,  —  his  heart 

in  his  hand  ! 


200 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS 


The  tribe  of  the  sachem  has  melted  away, 
But  the  word  that  he  spoke  is  remembered 

to-day, 
And  the  page  that  is  red  with  the  record 

of  shame 
The  tear-drops  have  whitened  round  Samo- 

set's  name. 

The  word  that  he  spoke  to  the  Pilgrim  of 

old  - 
May  sound  like  a  tale  that  has  often  been 

told; 
But  the  welcome  we  speak  is  as  fresh  as 

the  dew,  — 
As  the  kiss  of  a  lover,  that  always  is  new  ! 

Ay,  Guest  of  the  Nation  !  each  roof  is 
thine  own 

Through  all  the  broad  continent's  star-ban 
nered  zone; 

From  the  shore  where  the  curtain  of  morn 
is  uprolled, 

To  the  billows  that  flow  through  the  gate 
way  of  gold. 

The   snow-crested  mountains  are    calling 

aloud; 

Nevada  to  Ural  speaks  out  of  the  cloud, 
And  Shasta  shouts  forth,  from  his  throne 

in  the  sky, 
To  the  storm-splintered  summits,  the  peaks 

of  Altai ! 

You  must  leave  him,  they  say,  till  the  sum 
mer  is  green  ! 

Both  shores  are  his  home,  though  the 
waves  roll  between; 

And  then  we  '11  return  him,  with  thanks 
for  the  same, 

As  fresh  and  as  smiling  and  tall  as  he 
came. 

But  ours  is  the  region  of  arctic  delight; 

We  can  show  him  auroras  and  pole-stars 
by  night; 

There 's  a  Muscovy  sting  in  the  ice-tem 
pered  air, 

And  our  firesides  are  warm  and  our  maid 
ens  are  fair. 

The  flowers  are  full-blown  in  the  garlanded 
hall,  - 

They  will  bloom  round  his  footsteps  wher 
ever  they  fall; 


For  the  splendors  of  youth  and  the  sun 
shine  they  bring 

Make  the  roses  believe  't  is  the  summons 
of  Spring. 

One  word  of  our  language  he  needs  must 

know  well, 
But   another   remains    that    is    harder   to 

spell ; 
We  shall  speak  it  so  ill,  if  he  wishes  to 

learn 
How  we  utter   Farewell,  he  will  have  to 

return  ! 


AT    THE    BANQUET    TO    THE 
CHINESE  EMBASSY 

AUGUST   21,  1868 

BROTHERS,  whom  we  may  not  reach 
Through  the  veil  of  alien  speech, 
Welcome  !  welcome  !    eyes  can  tell 
What  the  lips  in  vain  would  spell,  — 
Words  that  hearts  can  understand, 
Brothers  from  the  Flowery  Laud  ! 

We,  the  evening's  latest  born, 
Hail  the  children  of  the  morn  ! 
We,  the  new  creation's  birth, 
Greet  the  lords  of  ancient  earth, 
From  their  storied  walls  and  towers 
Wandering  to  these  tents  of  ours  ! 

Land  of  wonders,  fair  Cathay, 

Who  long  hast  shunned  the  staring  day, 

Hid  in  mists  of  poet's  dreams 

By  thy  blue  and  yellow  streams,  — 

Let  us  thy  shadowed  form  behold,  — 

Teach  us  as  thou  didst  of  old. 

Knowledge  dwells  with  length  of  days; 
Wisdom  walks  in  ancient  ways: 
Thine  the  compass  that  could  guide 
A  nation  o'er  the  stormy  tide, 
Scourged  by  passions,  doubts,  and  fears, 
Safe  through  thrice  a  thousand  years  ! 

Looking  from  thy  turrets  gray 
Thou  hast  seen  the  world's  decay,  — 
Egypt  drowning  in  her  sands,  — 
Athens  rent  by  robbers'  hands,  — 
Rome,  the  wild  barbarian's  prey, 
Like  a  storm-cloud  swept  away: 


AT   THE   BANQUET   TO   THE   JAPANESE   EMBASSY         201 


Looking  from  thy  turrets  gray 
Still  we  see  thee.     Where  are  they  ? 
And  lo  !  a  new-born  nation  waits, 
Sitting  at  the  golden  gates 
That  glitter  by  the  sunset  sea,  — 
Waits  with  outspread  arras  for  thee  ! 

Open  wide,  ye  gates  of  gold, 
To  the  Dragon's  banner-fold  ! 
Builders  of  the  mighty  wall, 
Bid  your  mountain  barriers  fall  ! 
So  may  the  girdle  of  the  sun 
Bind  the  East  and  West  in  one, 

Till  Mount  Shasta's  breezes  fan 
The  snowy  peaks  of  Ta  Sieue-Shan,  — 
Till  Erie  blends  its  waters  blue 
With  the  waves  of  Tung-Ting-Hu,  — 
Till  deep  Missouri  lends  its  flow 
To  swell  the  rushing  IIoang-Ho  ! 


AT    THE    BANQUET   TO    THE 
JAPANESE  EMBASSY 

AUGUST  2,   [872 

WE  welcome  you,  Lords  of  the  Land  of 
the  Sun  ! 

The  voice  of  the  many  sounds  feebly 
through  one; 

Ah  !  would  't  were  a  voice  of  more  musical 
tone, 

But  the  dog-star  is  here,  and  the  song 
birds  have  flown. 

And  what  shall  I  sing  that  can  cheat  you 

of  smiles, 

Ye  heralds  of  peace  from  the  Orient  isles  ? 
If  only  the  Jubilee  —  Why  did  you  wait  ? 
You  are  welcome,  but  oh  !  you  're  a  little 

too  late  ! 

We  have  greeted  our  brothers  of  Ireland 
and  France, 

Round  the  fiddle  of  Strauss  we  have  joined 
in  the  dance, 

We  have  lagered  Herr  Saro,  that  fine- 
looking  man, 

And  glorified  Godfrev,  whose  name  it  is 
Dan. 

What  a  pity  !  we  've  missed  it  and  you  've 

missed  it  too, 
We  had  a  day  ready  and  waiting  for  you; 


We  'd    have    shown    you  —  provided,     of 

course,  you  had  come  — 
You  'd    have    heard  —  no,    you    would  n't, 

because  it  was  dumb. 

And  then  the  great  organ  !     The  chorus's 

shout  ! 
Like    the    mixture    teetotalers  call   "  Cold 

without  "  — 
A   mingling  of   elements,  strong,  but   not 

sweet; 
And  the  drum,  just  referred  to,  that  "  could 

n't  be  beat." 

The    shrines  of   our  pilgrims  are  not  like 

your  own, 

Where  white  Fusiyama  lifts  proudly  its  cone, 
(The  snow-mantled    mountain   we   see    on 

the  fan 
That    cools  our  hot  cheeks  with  a  breeze 

from  Japan.) 

But  ours  the  wide  temple  where  worship  is 

free 
As  the  wind  of  the  prairie,  the  wave  of  the 

sea; 
You    may  build  your  own  altar  wherever 

you  will, 
For  the  roof  of  that  temple  is  over  you  still. 

One   dome    overarches    the    star-bannered 

shore ; 
You  may  enter  the  Pope's  or  the  Puritan's 

door, 
Or  pass  with  the  Buddhist  his  gateway  of 

bronze, 
For  a  priest  is  but  Man,  be  he  bishop  or 

bonze. 

And  the  lesson  we  teach  with  the   sword 

and  the  pen 
Is  to  all  of  God's  children,  "  We  also  are 

men  ! 
If  you  wrong  us  we  smart,  if  you  prick  us 

we  bleed, 
If  you    love  us,  no  quarrel    with  color  or 

creed  !  " 

You  '11  find  us  a  well-meaning,  free-spoken 

crowd, 
Good  -  naturecl    enough,    but    a   little    too 

loud,  — 

To  be  sure,  there  is  alwavs  a  bit  of  a  row 
When  we  choose  our  Tycoon,  and  especially 

now. 


202 


SONGS  OF   MANY   SEASONS 


You  '11  take  it  all  calmly,  —  we  want  you 

to  see 
What  a  peaceable  fight  such  a  contest  can 

be, 
And  of  one  thing  be    certain,  however  it 

ends, 
You  will  find  that  our  voters  have  chosen 

your  friends. 

If  the  horse  that  stands  saddled  is  first  in 

the  race, 
You   will  greet  your  old  friend  with   the 

weed  in  his  face ; 
And  if  the  white  hat  and  the  White  House 


You  '11 


agree, 
find  H.  G. 


really  as  loving  as  he. 


But  oh,  what  a  pity  —  once  more  I  must 
say  — 

That  we  could  not  have  joined  in  a  "  Japan 
ese  clay"! 

Such  greeting  we  give  you  to-night  as  we 
can; 

Long  life  to  our  brothers  and  friends  of 
Japan  ! 

The  Lord  of  the  mountain  looks  down  from 
his  crest 

As  the  banner  of  morning  unfurls  in  the 
West; 

The  Eagle  was  always  the  friend  of  the 
Sun ; 

You  are  welcome  !  —  The  song  of  the  cage- 
bird  is  done. 


BRYANT'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTH 
DAY 

NOVEMBER  3,  1864 

O  EVEN-HANDED  Nature  !  we  confess 
This  life  that  men  so  honor,  love,  and  bless 
Has  filled  thine  olden  measure.     Not  the 
less 

We  count  the  precious  seasons  that  remain ; 
Strike  not  the  level  of  the  golden  grain, 
But   heap   it   high  with  years,  that  earth 
may  gain 

What  heaven  can  lose,  —  for  heaven  is  rich 

in  song: 

Do  not  all  poets,  dying,  still  prolong 
Their  broken  chants  amid  the  seraph  throng, 


Where,  blind  no  more,  Ionia's  bard  is  seen, 
And  England's  heavenly  minstrel  sits  be 
tween 

The  Mantuan  and  the  wan-cheeked  Floren 
tine  ? 

This  was   the   first   sweet   singer   in    the 

cage 

Of  our  close-woven  life.     A  new-born  age 
Claims  in  his  vesper  song  its  heritage: 

Spare  us,  oh  spare  us  long  our  heart's  de 
sire  ! 

Moloch,  who  calls  our  children  through  the 
fire, 

Leaves  us  the  gentle  master  of  the  lyre. 

We  count  not  on  the  dial  of  the  sun 

The  hours,  the  minutes,  that  his  sands  have 

run ; 
Rather,  as  on  those  flowers   that  one  by 

one 

From  earliest  dawn   their   ordered  bloom 

display 

Till  evening's  planet  with  her  guiding  ray 
Leads  in  the  blind  old  mother  of  the  day, 

We   reckon  by   his    songs,   each    song  a 

flower, 
The  long,  long  daylight,  numbering   hour 

by  hour, 
Each   breathing    sweetness    like   a   bridal 

bower. 

His  morning  glory  shall  we  e'er  forget  ? 
His  noontide's  full-blown  lily  coronet? 
His  evening  primrose  has  not  opened  yet; 

Nay,  even  if  creeping  Time  should  hide  the 

skies 

In  midnight  from  his  century-laden  eyes, 
Darkened  like  his  who  sang  of  Paradise, 

Would  not   some  hidden   song-bud  open 

bright 

As  the  resplendent  cactus  of  the  night 
That  floods  the  gloom  with  fragrance  and 

with  light  ? 

How  can  we  praise  the  verse  whose  music 

flows 

With  solemn  cadence  and  majestic  close, 
Pure  as  the  dew  that  filters  through  the 

rose  ? 


A   FAREWELL   TO   AGASSIZ 


203 


How  shall  we  thank  him  that  in  evil  days 
He  faltered  never,  —  nor  for  blame,  nor 

praise, 
Nor   hire,  nor   party,  shamed   his   earlier 

lays  ? 

But  as  his  boyhood  was  of  manliest  hue, 
So  to  his  youth  his  manly  years  were  true, 
All   dyed   in   royal    purple    through    and 
through  ! 

He  for  whose  touch  the  lyre  of  Heaven  is 

strung 
Needs    not   the   flattering   toil   of   mortal 

tongue: 
Let  not  the  singer  grieve  to  die  unsung  ! 

Marbles  forget  their  message  to  mankind: 

In  his  own  verse  the  poet  still  we  find, 

In  his  own  page  his  memory  lives  enshrined, 

As  in  their  amber  sweets   the   smothered 

bees,  — 

As  the  fair  cedar,  fallen  before  the  breeze, 
Lies  self-embalmed  amidst  the  mouldering 

trees. 

Poets,  like  youngest  children,  never  grow 
Out  of   their  mother's  fondness.     Nature 

so 
Holds    their  soft  hands,  and  will   not   let 

them  go, 

Till  at  the  last  they  track  with  even  feet 
Her  rhythmic  footsteps,  and  their  pulses 

beat 

Twinned  with  her  pulses,  and  their  lips  re 
peat 

The    secrets  she    has    told  them,   as   their 

own : 

Thus  is  the  inmost  soul  of  Xature  known, 
And  the   rapt   minstrel  shares    her   awful 

throne  ! 

O  lover  of  her  mountains  and  her  woods, 
Her  bridal  chamber's  leafy  solitudes, 
Where  Love  himself  with  tremulous  step 
intrudes, 

Her   snows    fall    harmless   on   thy    sacred 

fire: 
Far  be  the  day  that  claims  thy  sounding 

lyre 
To  join  the  music  of  the  angel  choir  ! 


Yet,  since  life's  amplest  measure  must  be 

filled, 
Since    throbbing   hearts    must    be    forever 

stilled, 
And  all  must  fade  that  evening  sunsets  gild, 

Grant,  Father,  ere  he  close  the  mortal  eyes 
That  see  a  Nation's  reeking  sacrifice, 
Its  smoke  may  vanish  from  these  blackened 
skies  ! 

Then,  when  his  summons  comes,  since  come 

it  must, 
And,  looking  heavenward  with  unfaltering 

trust, 
He  wraps  his  drapery  round  him  for  the 

dust, 

His  last  fond  glance  will  show  him  o'er  his 

head 
The    Northern    fires    beyond    the    zenith 

spread 
In   lambent    glory,    blue    and    white    and 

red,  — 

The  Southern   cross    without  its   bleeding- 
load, 

The  milky  way  of  peace  all  freshly  strowed, 
And  every  white-throned  star   fixed  in  its 
lost  abode  ! 


A    FAREWELL   TO    AGASSIZ 

[Written  on  the  eve  of  Agassiz's  journey  to 
Brazil  in  1805.] 

How  the  mountains  talked  together, 

Looking  down  upon  the  weather, 

When  they  heard  our  friend  had  planned  his 

Little  trip  among  the  Andes  ! 

How  they  '11  bare  their  snowy  scalps 

To  the  climber  of  the  Alps 

When  the  cry  goes  through  their  passes, 

"  Here  comes  the  great  Agassiz  ! " 

"Yes,  I'm  tall,"  says  Chimborazo, 

'•  But  I  wait  for  him  to  say  so,  — 

That 's  the  only  thing  that  lacks,  —  he 

Must  see  me,  Cotopaxi  !  " 

"  Ay  !  ay  !  "  the  fire-peak  thunders, 

"  And  he  must  view  my  wonders  ! 

I  'm  but  a  lonely  crater 

Till  I  have  him  for  spectator  !  " 

The  mountain  hearts  are  yearning, 

The  lava-torches  burning, 

The  rivers  bend  to  meet  him, 


204 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS 


The  forests  bow  to  greet  him, 

It  thrills  the  spinal  column 

Of  fossil  fishes  solemn, 

And  glaciers  crawl  the  faster 

To  the  feet  of  their  old  master  ! 

Heaven  keep  him  well  and  hearty, 

Both  him  and  all  his  party  ! 

From  the  sun  that  broils  and  smites, 

From  the  centipede  that  bites, 

From  the  hail-storm  and  the  thunder, 

From  the  vampire  and  the  condor, 

From  the  gust  upon  the  river, 

From  the  sudden  earthquake  shiver, 

From  the  trip  of  mule  or  donkey, 

From  the  midnight  howling  monkey, 

From  the  stroke  of  knife  or  dagger, 

From  the  puma  and  the  jaguar, 

From  the  horrid  boa-constrictor 

That  has  scared  us  in  the  pictur', 

From  the  Indians  of  the  Pampas 

Who  would  dine  upon  their  gram  pas, 

From  every  beast  and  vermin 

That  to  think  of  sets  us  squirmin', 

From  every  snake  that  tries  on 

The  traveller  his  p'ison, 

From  every  pest  of  Natur', 

Likewise  the  alligator, 

And  from  two  things  left  behind  him,  — 

(Be  sure  they  '11  try  to  find  him,) 

The  tax-bill  and  assessor,  — 

Heaven  keep  the  great  Professor  ! 

May  he  find,  with  his  apostles, 

That  the  land  is  full  of  fossils, 

That  the  waters  swarm  with  fishes 

Shaped  according  to  his  wishes, 

That  every  pool  is  fertile 

In  fancy  kinds  of  turtle, 

New  birds  around  him  singing, 

New  insects,  never  stinging, 

With  a  million  novel  data 

About  the  articulata, 

And  facts  that  strip  off  all  husks 

From  the  history  of  mollusks. 

And  when,  with  loud  Te  Deum, 
He  returns  to  his  Museum, 
May  he  find  the  monstrous  reptile 
That  so  long  the  land  has  kept  ill 
By  Grant  and  Sherman  throttled, 
And  by  Father  Abraham  bottled, 
(All  specked  and  streaked  and  mottled 
With  the  scars  of  murderous  battles, 
Where  he  clashed  the  iron  rattles 
That  gods  and  men  he  shook  at,) 
For  all  the  world  to  look  at ! 


God  bless  the  great  Professor  ! 
And  Madam,  too,  God  bless  her  ! 
Bless  him  and  all  his  band, 
On  the  sea  and  on  the  land, 
Bless  them  head  and  heart  and  hand, 
Till  their  glorious  raid  is  o'er, 
And  they  touch  our  ransomed  shore  ! 
Then  the  welcome  of  a  nation, 
With  its  shout  of  exultation, 
Shall  awake  the  dumb  creation, 
And  the  shapes  of  buried  a3ons 
Join  the  living  creature's  pa3ans, 
Till  the  fossil  echoes  roar; 
While  the  mighty  megalosaurus 
Leads  the  paleozoic  chorus,  — 
God  bless  the  great  Professor, 
And  the  land  his  proud  possessor, — 
Bless  them  now  and  evermore  ! 


AT   A   DINNER   TO   ADMIRAL 
FARRAGUT 

JULY  6,  1865 

Now,  smiling  friends  and  shipmates  all, 

Since  half  our  battle  's  won, 
A  broadside  for  our  Admiral  ! 

Load  every  crystal  gun  ! 
Stand  ready  till  I  give  the  word,  — 

You  won't  have  time  to  tire,  — 
And  when  that  glorious  name  is  heard, 

Then  hip  !  hurrah  !  and  fire  ! 

Bow  foremost  sinks  the  rebel  craft,  — 

Our  eyes  not  sadly  turn 
And  see  the  pirates  huddling  aft 

To  drop  their  raft  astern  : 
Soon  o'er  the  sea-worm's  destined  prey 

The  lifted  wave  shall  close,  — 
So  perish  from  the  face  of  day 

All  Freedom's  banded  foes  ! 

But  ah  !  what  splendors  fire  the  sky  ! 

What  glories  greet  the  morn  ! 
The  storm-tost  banner  streams  on  high. 

Its  heavenly  hues  new-born  ! 
Its  red  fresh  dyed  in  heroes'  blood, 

Its  peaceful  white  more  pure, 
To  float  unstained  o'er  field  and  flood 

While  earth  and  seas  endure  ! 

All  shapes  before  the  driving  blast 
Must  glide  from  mortal  view; 


AT   A    DINNER   TO   GENERAL   GRANT 


205 


Black  roll  the  billows  of  the  past 

Behind  the  present's  blue, 
Fast,  fast,  are  lessening  in  the  light 

The  names  of  high  renown,  — 
Van    Tromp's    proud   besom    fades    from 
sight, 

And  Nelson  's  half  hull  down  ! 

Scarce  one  tall  frigate  walks  the  sea 

Or  skirts  the  safer  shores 
Of  all  that  bore  to  victory 

Our  stout  old  commodores; 
Hull,     Bainbridge,    Porter,  —  where    are 
they  ? 

The  waves  their  answer  roll, 
"  Still  bright  in  memory's  sunset  ray,  — 

God  rest  each  gallant  soul  !  " 

A  brighter  name  must  dim  their  light 

With  more  than  noontide  ray, 
The  Sea-King  of  the  "  River  Fight," 

The  Conqueror  of  the  Bay,  — 
Now  then  the  broadside  !  cheer  on  cheer 

To  greet  him  safe  on  shore  ! 
Health,  peace,  and  many  a  bloodless  year 

To  fight  his  battles  o'er  ! 


AT   A    DINNER    TO    GENERAL 
GRANT 

JULY    31.    1865 

WHEN  treason  first  began  the  strife 

That  crimsoned  sea  and  shore, 
The  Nation  poured  her  hoarded  life 

On  Freedom's  threshing-floor; 
From  field  and  prairie,  east  and  west, 

From  coast  and  hill  and  plain, 
The  sheaves  of  ripening  manhood  pressed 

Thick  as  the  bearded  grain. 

Rich  was  the  harvest;  souls  as  true 

As  ever  battle  tried  ; 
But  fiercer  still  the  conflict  grew, 

The  floor  of  death  more  wide; 
Ah,  who  forgets  that  dreadful  day 

Whose  blot  of  grief  and  shame 
Four  bitter  years  scarce  wash  away 

In  seas  of  blood  and  flame  ? 

Vain,  vain  the  Nation's  lofty  boasts, 

Vain  all  her  sacrifice  ! 
"  Give  me  a  man  to  lead  my  hosts, 

O  God  in  heaven  !  "    she  cries. 


While  Battle  whirls  his  crushing  flail, 
And  plies  his  winnowing  fan,  — 

Thick  flies  the  chaff  on  every  gale,  — 
She  cannot  find  her  man  ! 

Bravely  they  fought  who  failed  to  win,  — 

Our  leaders  battle-scarred,  — 
Fighting  the  hosts  of  hell  and  sin, 

But  devils  die  always  hard  ! 
Blame  not  the  broken  tools  of  God 

That  helped  our  sorest  needs; 
Through  paths  that  martyr  feet  have  trod 

The  conqueror's  steps  He  leads. 

But    now   the    heavens    grow   black    with 
doubt, 

The  ravens  fill  the  sky, 

"  Friends  "   plot  within,   foes    storm  with 
out, 

Hark,  —  that  despairing  cry, 
"  Where  is  the  heart,  the  hand,  the  brain 

To  dare,  to  do,  to  plan  ?  " 
The  bleeding  Nation  shrieks  in  vain,  — 

She  has  not  found  her  man  ! 

A  little  echo  stirs  the  air,  — 

Some  tale,  whate'er  it  be, 
Of  rebels  routed  in  their  lair 

Along  the  Tennessee. 
The  little  echo  spreads  and  grows, 

And  soon  the  trump  of  Fame 
Has  taught  the  Nation's  friends  and  foes 

The  "man  on  horseback"  's  name. 

So  well  his  warlike  wooing  sped, 

No  fortress  might  resist 
His  billets-doux  of  lisping  lead, 

The  bayonets  in  his  fist,  — 
With  kisses  from  his  cannons'  mouth 

He  made  his  passion  known 
Till  Vicksburg,  vestal  of  the  South, 

L'nbound  her  virgin  zone. 

And  still  where'er  his  banners  led 

He  conquered  as  he  came, 
The  trembling  hosts  of  treason  fled 

Before  his  breath  of  flame, 
And  Fame's  still  gathering  echoes  grew 

Till  high  o'er  Richmond's  towers 
The  starry  fold  of  Freedom  flew, 

And  all  the  land  was  ours. 

Welcome  from  fields  where  valor  fought 
To  feasts  where  pleasure  waits; 


206 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS 


A  Nation  gives  you  smiles  unbought 

At  all  her  opening  gates  ! 
Forgive  us  when  we  press  your  hand, 

Your  war-worn  features  scan,  — 
God  sent  you  to  a  bleeding  land ; 

Our  Nation  found  its  man  ! 


TO  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW 

BEFORE    HIS    DEPARTURE    FOR    EUROPE, 
MAY   27,  1868 

OUR  Poet,  who  has  taught  the  Western 
breeze 

To  waft  his  songs  before  him  o'  er  the 
seas, 

Will  find  them  wheresoe'er  his  wander 
ings  reach 

Borne  on  the  spreading  tide  of  English 

speech 

Twin  with  the  rhythmic  waves  that  kiss  the 
farthest  beach. 

Where  shall  the  singing  bird  a  stranger 

be 
That   finds   a   nest    for    him    in    every 

tree? 

How  shall  he  travel  who  can  never  go 
Where  his  own  voice  the  echoes  do  not 

know, 
Where  his  own  garden  flowers  no  longer 

learn  to  grow  ? 

Ah  !  gentlest  soul !    how  gracious,  how 
benign 

Breathes  through  our  troubled  life  that 
voice  of  thine, 

Filled  with  a  sweetness  born  of  happier 
spheres, 

That  wins  and  warms,  that  kindles,  soft 
ens,  cheers, 

That  calms  the  wildest  woe  and  stays  the 
bitterest  tears ! 

Forgive    the    simple    words   that   sound 
like  praise; 

The  mist   before   me   dims   my   gilded 
phrase; 

Our  speech  at  best  is  half  alive  and  cold, 

And  save  that  tenderer  moments  make 

us  bold 

Our  whitening  lips  would  close,  their  tru 
est  truth  untold. 


We   who   behold   our   autumn   sun    be 
low 

The  Scorpion's  sign,  against  the  Archer's 
bow, 

Know  well  what  parting  means  of  friend 
from  friend; 

After  the  snows  no  freshening  dews  de 
scend, 

And  what  the  frost  has  marred,  the  sun 
shine  will  not  mend. 

So  we  all  count  the  months,  the  weeks, 

the  days, 
That   keep   thee  from   us  in   unwonted 

ways, 
Grudging  to  alien  hearths  our  widowed 

time; 
And  one  has  shaped  a  breath  in  artless 

rhyme 
That  sighs,  "We  track  thee  still  through 

each  remotest  clime." 

What  wishes,  longings,  blessings,  prayers 

shall  be 
The  more  than  golden  freight  that  floats 

with  thee  ! 
And  know,  whatever  welcome  thou  shalt 

find,  — 
Thou  who  hast  won  the  hearts  of  half 

mankind,  — 
The   proudest,  fondest   love   thou  leavest 

still  behind  ! 


TO    CHRISTIAN    GOTTFRIED 
EHRENBERG 

FOR   HIS  "JUBIL/EUM"   AT  BERLIN,  NO 
VEMBER  5,  1868 

This  poem  was  written  at  the  suggestion  of 
Mr.  George  Bancroft,  the  historian. 

THOU  who  hast  taught  the  teachers  of  man 
kind 

How  from  the  least  of  things  the  might 
iest  grow, 
What  marvel   jealous   Nature    made  thee 

blind, 
Lest  man  should  learn  what  angels  long 

to  know  ? 

Thou  in  the  flinty  rock,  the  river's  flow, 
In    the   thick-moted    sunbeam's    sifted 
light 


A   TOAST   TO    WILKIE    COLLINS 


207 


Hast  trained  thy   downward-pointed   tube 

to  show 
Worlds  within  worlds  unveiled  to  mortal 

sight, 
Even   as   the     patient    watchers     of     the 

night,  — 
The     cyelope   gleaners    of    the    fruitful 

skies,  — 
Show  the  wide  misty  way  where  heaven  is 

white 

All  paved  with  suns  that  daze  our  won 
dering  eyes. 

Far  o'er  the  stormy  deep  an  empire  lies. 
Beyond  the  storied  islands  of  the  blest, 
That   waits  to  see   the   lingering  day-star 

rise ; 

The  forest-cinctured  Eden  of  the  West; 
Whose   queen,    fair    Freedom,   twines    her 

iron  crest 

With  leaves  from  every  wreath  that  mor 
tals  wear, 

But  loves  the  sober  garland  ever  best 
That  science    lends    the    sage's   silvered 

hair;  — 
Science,   who   makes    life's  heritage  more 

fair, 
Forging   for   every   lock   its    mastering 

key, 
Filling  with   life   and   hope   the    stagnant 

air, 
Pouring  the  light   of   Heaven   o'er  land 

and  sea  ! 
From   her  unsceptred   realm   we   come    to 

thee, 

Bearing  our  slender  tribute  in  our  hands; 
Deem  it   not  worthless,  humble   though   it 

be, 

Set  by  the  larger  gifts  of  older  lands: 
The  smallest  fibres   weave    the    strongest 

bands,  — 
In  narrowest  tubes  the  sovereign  nerves 

are  spun,  — 

A  little  cord  along  the  deep  sea-sands 
Makes  the  live  thought   of  severed  na 
tions  one: 
Thy   fame    has  journeyed  westering   with 

the  sun, 
Prairies  and  lone  sierras  know  thy  name 


And  the  long  day  of  service  nobly  done 
That  crowns  thy  darkened  evening  with 
its  flame  ! 

One  with  the  grateful  world,  we  own  thy 

claim,  — 
Nay,  rather  claim  our   right  to  join  the 

throng 
Who  come  with  varied  tongues,  but  hearts 

the  same, 
To  hail  thy  festal  morn  with  smiles  and 

song; 
Ah,  happy  they  to  whom  the  joys  belong 

Of  peaceful  triumphs  that  can  never   die 
From    History's     record,  —  not    of   gilded 

wrong, 
But  golden  truths   that,  while   the  world 

goes  by 

With  all  its  empty  pageant,  blazoned  high 
Around  the  Master's  name  forever  shine! 
So  shines  thy  name  illumined  in  the  sky, — 
Such   joys,  such   triumphs,  such  remem 
brance  thine  ! 


A    TOAST     TO    WILKIE    COLLINS 

FEBRUARY    I  6,    1874 

TIIK  painter's  and  the  poet's  fame 

Shed  their  twinned  lustre  round  his  name, 

To  gild  our  story-teller's  art, 

Where  each  in  turn  must  phi}'  his  part. 

What  scenes  from  Wilkie's  pencil  sprung, 
The  minstrel  saw  but  left  unsung  ! 
What  shapes  the  pen  of  Collins  drew, 
No  painter  clad  in  living  hue  ! 

But  on  our  artist's  shadowy  screen 
A  stranger  miracle  is  seen 
Than  priest  unveils  or  pilgrim  seeks,  — 
The  poem  breathes,  the  picture  speaks  ! 

And  so  his  double  name  comes  true, 
They  christened  better  than  they  knew, 
And  Art  proclaims  him  twice  her  son,  — 
Painter  and  poet,  both  in  one  ! 


2o8 


SONGS   OF   MANY    SEASONS 


MEMORIAL   VERSES 


FOR  THE  SERVICES  IN  MEMORY 
OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

CITY  OF  BOSTON,  JUNE  I,  1865 
CHORAL  :  "  LUTHER'S  JUDGMENT  HYMN  " 

O  THOU  of  soul  and  sense  and  breath 

The  ever-present  Giver, 
Unto  thy  mighty  Angel,  Death, 

All  flesh  thou  dost  deliver; 
What  most  we  cherish  we  resign, 
For  life  and  death  alike  are  thine, 

Who  reignest  Lord  forever  ! 

Our  hearts  lie  buried  in  the  dust 
With  him  so  true  and  tender, 

The  patriot's  stay,  the  people's  trust, 
The  shield  of  the  offender; 

Yet  every  murmuring  voice  is  still, 

As,  bowing  to  thy  sovereign  will, 
Our  best-loved  we  surrender. 

Dear  Lord,  with  pitying  eye  behold 

This  martyr  generation, 
Which  thou,  through  trials  manifold, 

Art  showing  thy  salvation  ! 
Oh  let  the  blood  by  murder  spilt 
Wash  out  thy  stricken  children's  guilt 

And  sanctify  our  nation  ! 

Be  thou  thy  orphaned  Israel's  friend, 
Forsake  thy  people  never, 

In  One  our  broken  Many  blend, 
That  none  again  may  sever  ! 

Hear  us,  O  Father,  while  we  raise 

With  trembling  lips  our  song  of  praise, 
And  bless  thy  name  forever  ! 


FOR   THE    COMMEMORATION 
SERVICES 

CAMBRIDGE,  JULY  21,  1865 

FOUR  summers  coined  their  golden  light  in 

leaves, 

Four   wasteful   autumns   flung   them  to 
the  gale, 


Four  winters  wore  the  shroud  the  tempest 

weaves,. 

The   fourth  wan   April   weeps  o'er  hill 
and  vale ; 

And  still  the  war-clouds  scowl  on  sea  and 

land, 
With  the  red  gleams  of  battle  staining 

through, 

When  lo  !  as  parted  by  an  angel's  hand, 
They  open,  and  the  heavens   again  are 
blue  ! 

Which   is   the  dream,  the   present  or  the 

past? 

The  night  of  anguish  or  the  joyous  morn  ? 
The  long,  long  years  with  horrors  overcast, 
Or  the  sweet  promise  of  the  day  new 
born  ? 

Tell  us,  O  father,  as  thine  arms  infold 
Thy  belted  first-born  in  their  fast  em 
brace, 

Murmuring     the     prayer     the     patriarch 
breathed  of  old,  — 

"Now   let  me   die,  for    I  have  seen   thy 
face  ! " 

Tell  us,  O  mother,  —  nay,  thou  canst  not 

speak, 
But  thy  fond  eyes  shall  answer,  brimmed 

with  joy,  — 
Press  thy  mute  lips  against  the  sunbrowned 

cheek, 
Is  this  a  phantom,  —  thy  returning  boy  ? 

Tell  us,  O  maiden,  —  ah,  what  canst  thou 

tell 
That   Nature's    record    is   not   first    to 

teach,  — 

The  open  volume  all  can  read  so  well, 
With   its   twin   rose-hued  pages  full  of 
speech  ? 

And    ye    who    mourn   your    dead,  —  how 

sternly  true 
The  crushing  hour  that  wrenched  their 

lives  away, 
Shadowed  with  sorrow's  midnight  veil  for 

you, 
For  them  the  dawning  of  immortal  day  ! 


FOR   THE   COMMEMORATION    SERVICES 


209 


Dream-like    these  years  of  conflict,   not  a 

dream  ! 

Death,  ruin,  ashes  tell  the  awful  tale, 
Read    by   the    Hauling'    war-track's    lurid 

gleam : 

No  dream,  but  truth  that  turns  the  na 
tions  pale  ! 

For  on  the  pillar  raised  by  martyr  hands 
Burns  the  rekindled  beacon  of  the  right, 

Sowing-  its  seeds  of  fire  o'er  all  the  lands,  — 
Thrones  look  a  century  older  in  its  light  ! 

Rome    had    her  triumphs;  round  the  con 
queror's  car 
The  ensigns  waved,  the  brazen  clarions 

blew, 

And  o'er  the  reeking  spoils  of  bandit  war 
With  outspread  wings  the  cruel  eagles 
Hew; 

Arms,  treasures,  captives,  kings  in  clanking 

chains 
Urged  on  by  trampling  cohorts  bronzed 

and  scarred, 
And  wild-eyed  wonders  snared  on  Libyan 

plains, 
Lion  and  ostrich  and  camelopard. 

Vain  all  that  pnetors  clutched,  that  consuls 

brought 
When  Rome's  returning  legions  crowned 

their  lord; 
Less  than  the  least  brave  deed  these  hands 

have  wrought, 

We  clasp,  unclinching  from  the  bloody 
sword. 

Theirs    was    the    mighty  work   that    seers 

foretold ; 
They  know  not  half    their  glorious  toil 

has  won, 
For  this  is  Heaven's  same  battle,  —  joined 

of  old 

When  Athens   fought  for  us    at  Mara 
thon  ! 

Behold  a  vision  none  hath  understood  ! 

The  breaking  of  the  Apocalyptic  seal ; 
Twice  rings  the  summons.  —  Hail  and  fire 

and  blood  ! 

Then  the  third  angel  blows  his  trumpet- 
peal. 


Loud   wail    the    dwellers    on    the   myrtled 

coasts, 
The  green  savannas  swell  the  maddened 

pry, 

And  with  a  yell  from  all  the  demon  hosts 
Falls   the  great  star  called  Wormwood 
from  the  sky  ! 

Bitter  it  mingles  with  the  poisoned  flow 

Of  the  warm  rivers  winding  to  the  shore, 
Thousands  must  drink  the  waves  of  death 

and  woe, 

But  the  star  Wormwood  stains  the  heav 
ens  no  more  ! 

Peace  smiles  at  last;  the  Nation  calls  her 

sons 
To    sheathe    the    sword;  her    battle-flag 

she  furls, 
Speaks  in  glad    thunders    from   unshotted 

guns, 

No  terror  shrouded  in  the  smoke-wreath's 
curls. 

O  ye  that  fought  for  Freedom,  living,  dead, 
One  sacred  host  of  God's  anointed  Queen, 

For  every  holy  drop  your  veins  have  shed 
We  breathe  a  welcome  to  our  bowers  of 
or  re  en  ! 


Welcome,  ye   living  !    from    the    foeman's 

gripe 
Your   country's  banner  it  was  yours  to 

wrest,  — 

Ah,  many  a   forehead   shows  the   banner- 
stripe, 

And  stars,  once  crimson,  hallow  many  a 
breast. 

And  ye,  pale  heroes,  who  from  glory's  bed 
Mark  when  your  old  battalions  form  in 

line, 

Move  in  their  marching  ranks  with  noise 
less  tread, 

And  shape  unheard  the  evening  counter 
sign, 

Come  with   your  comrades,  the  returning 

brave; 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  they  await  you  here ; 
These    lent  the  life  their  martyr-brothers 

gave,  — 
Living  and  dead  alike  forever  dear  ! 


2IO 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS 


EDWARD  EVERETT 
"OUR  FIRST  CITIZEN" 

Read  at  the  meeting-  of  the  Massachusetts 
Historical  Society,  January  30,  18(55. 

WINTER'S  cold  drift  lies  glistening  o'er  his 

breast  ; 

For  him  no  spring  shall  bid  the  leaf  un 
fold  : 
What  Love  could  speak,  by  sudden  grief 

oppressed, 

What  swiftly  summoned  Memory  tell,  is 
told. 

Even  as  the  bells,  in  one  consenting  chime, 
Filled  with  their  sweet  vibrations  all 
the  air, 

So  joined  all  voices,  in  that  mournful  time, 
His  genius,  wisdom,  virtues,  to  declare. 

What  place  is  left  for  words  of  measured 

praise, 
Till   calm-eyed   History,  with   her   iron 

pen, 
Grooves  in  the  unchanging  rock  the  final 

phrase 

That  shapes  his  image  in  the  souls  of 
men  ? 

Yet  while  the  echoes  still  repeat  his  name, 
While  countless  tongues  his  full-orbed 

life  rehearse, 
Love,  by   his   beating   pulses   taught,  will 

claim 

The  breath  of  song,  the  tuneful  throb  of 
verse,  — 

Verse  that,  in  ever-changing  ebb  and  flow, 
Moves,  like  the  laboring  heart,  with  rush 

and  rest, 
Or   swings    in    solemn    cadence,    sad   and 

slow, 

Like  the  tired  heaving  of  a  grief-worn 
breast. 

This  was  a  mind  so  rounded,  so  complete, 

No  partial  gift  of  Nature  in  excess, 
That,  like   a   single   stream   where   many 

meet, 

Each  separate  talent  counted  something 
less. 


A  little  hillock,  if  it  lonely  stand, 

Holds    o'er    the    fields    an    undisputed 

reign ; 

While  the  broad  summit  of  the  table-land 
Seems  with  its  belt  of   clouds   a   level 
plain. 

Servant   of   all   his   powers,  that   faithful 

slave, 
Unsleeping  Memory,  strengthening  with 

his  toils, 

To  every  ruder  task  his  shoulder  gave, 
And  loaded  every  day  with  golden  spoils. 

Order,   the   law   of   Heaven,  was  throned 

supreme 
O'er   action,    instinct,    impulse,   feeling, 

thought; 

True  as  the  dial's  shadow  to  the  beam, 
Each    hour  was  equal  to  the  charge   it 
brought. 

Too  large  his  compass  for  the  nicer  skill 
That  weighs  the  world  of  science  grain 

by  grain; 

All  realms  of  knowledge  owned  the  mas 
tering  will 

That  claimed  the  franchise  of  its  whole 
domain. 

Earth,  air,  sea,  sky,  the  elemental  fire, 
Art,  history,  song,  —  what  meanings  lie 

in  each 

Found  in  his  cunning  hand  a  stringless  lyre, 
And  poured  their  mingling  music  through 
his  speech. 

Thence  flowed  those  anthems  of  our  festal 

days, 

Whose  ravishing  division  held  apart 
The    lips    of    listening    throngs    in   sweet 

amaze, 

Moved  in  all  breasts  the  selfsame  human 
heart. 

Subdued  his  accents,  as  of  one  who  tries 
To  press  some  care,  some  haunting  sad 
ness  down; 
His  smile  half   shadow;   and  to  stranger 

eyes 
The  kingly  forehead  wore  an  iron  crown. 

He  was   not  armed  to  wrestle   with   the 
storm, 


SHAKESPEARE 


211 


To  tight  for  homely  truth  with  vulgar 

power; 
Grace  looked  from  every  feature,  shaped 

his  form,  — 
The    rose    of    Academe,  —  the    perfect 

flower  ! 

Such    was   the    stately    scholar   whom   we 

knew 

In  those  ill  days  of  soul-enslaving  calm, 
Before    the    blast  of   Xortherii  vengeance 

blew 

Her    snow-wreathed    pine    against    the 
Southern  palm. 

Ah,  God  forgive  us  !  did  we  hold  too  cheap 
The  heart   we   might    have    known,   but 

would  not  see, 

And  look  to  find  the  nation's  friend  asleep 
Through   the   dread   hour   of    her  Geth- 
semane  ? 

That  wrong   is  past  ;  we  gave  him  up  to 

Death 

With  all  a  hero's  honors  round  his  name ; 
As  martyrs  coin  their  blood,  he  coined  his 

breath, 

And    dimmed    the   scholar's    in    the    pa 
triot's  fame. 

So  shall  we  blazon  on  the  shaft  we  raise,  — 
Telling  our  grief,  our  pride,  to  unborn 

years,  — 
"  He  who  had  lived  the  mark  of  all  men's 

praise 
Died  with  the  tribute  of  a  Xation's  tears." 


SHAKESPEARE 

TERCENTENNIAL    CELEBRATION 
APRIL    23,    1864 

"  WHO  claims  our  Shakespeare  from  that 

realm  unknown, 
Beyond  the  storm-vexed  islands  of  the 

deep, 
Where  Genoa's  roving  mariner  was  blown?   [ 

Pier  twofold  Saint's-day  let  our  England 

° 
keep  ; 

Shall  warring  aliens  share  her  holy  task  ?  " 
The  Old  World  echoes  ask. 


O  land  of  Shakespeare  !  ours  with  all  thy 

past, 
Till  these  last  years  that  make  the  sea 

so  wide, 

Think  not  the  jar  of  battle's  trumpet-blast 
Has   dulled  our  aching  sense  to  joyous 

pride 

In  every  noble  word  thy  sons  bequeathed 
The  air  our  fathers  breathed  ! 

War-wasted,    haggard,    panting   from   the 

strife, 

We  turn  to  other  days  and  far-off  lands, 
Live  o'er  in  dreams  the  Poet's  faded  life, 
Come   with   fresh  lilies  in    our  fevered 

hands 
To    wreathe  his  bust,   and  scatter  purple 

flowers,  — 
Xot  his  the  need,  but  ours  ! 

We  call  those  poets  who  are  first  to  mark 
Through  earth's  dull  mist  the  coming  of 

the  dawn,  — 
Who  see  in  twilight's  gloom  the  first  pale 

spark, 

While  others  only  note  that  day  is  gone; 
For  him  the  Lord  of  light  the  curtain  rent 
That  veils  the  firmament. 

The  greatest  for  its  greatness  is  half  known, 
Stretching  beyond  our  narrow  quadrant- 
lines,  — 

As  in  that  world  of  Xature  all  outgrown 
Where  Calaveras  lifts  his  awful  pines, 
And  cast  from  Mariposa's  mountain-wall 
Nevada's  cataracts  fall. 

Yet  heaven's  remotest  orb  is  parti v  ours, 
Throbbing   its    radiance   like   a*  beating 

heart ; 
In  the  wide  compass  of  angelic  powers 

The  instinct  of  the  blind  worm  has  its  part; 
So  in  God's  kingliest  creature  we  behold 
The  flower  our  buds  infold. 

With  no  vain  praise  we   mock  the  stone- 
carved  name 
Stamped  once  on  dust  that  moved  with 

pulse  and  breath, 

As  thinking  to  enlarge  that  amplest  fame 
Whose  undimmed  glories  gild  the  night 

of  death: 

We  praise  not  star  or  sun;  in  these  we  see 
Thee,  Father,  only  thee  ! 


212 


SONGS    OF   MANY    SEASONS 


Thy  gifts  are  beauty,  wisdom,  power,  and 

love : 
We  read,  we  reverence   on  this  human 

soul,  — 

Earth's  clearest  mirror  of  the  light  above,  — 

Plain  as  the  record  on  thy  prophet's  scroll, 

When  o'er  his  page  the  eftiuent  splendors 

poured, 
Thine  own  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord  !  " 

This  player  was  a  prophet  from  on  high, 
Thine   own  elected.      Statesman,   poet, 

sage, 
For  him  thy  sovereign  pleasure  passed  them 

by; 

Sidney's  fair  youth,  and  Raleigh's  ripened 

age, 
Spenser's    chaste    soul,  and    his    imperial 

mind 
Who  taught  and  shamed  mankind. 

Therefore   we   bid  our  hearts'   Te  Deum 

rise, 

Nor  fear  to  make  thy  worship  less  divine, 
And  hear   the   shouted   choral   shake   the 

skies, 
Counting  all  glory,  power,  and  wisdom 

thine ; 

For  thy  great  gift  thy  greater  name  adore, 
And  praise  thee  evermore  ! 

In  this   dread   hour   of    Nature's    utmost 

need, 
Thanks   for   these    unstained   drops   of 

freshening  dew  ! 

Oh,  while  our  martyrs  fall,  our  heroes  bleed, 
Keep  us   to   every  sweet   remembrance 

true, 

Till  from  this  blood-red  sunset  springs  new 
born 
Our  Nation's  second  morn  ! 


IN    MEMORY  OF    JOHN    AND 
ROBERT  WARE 

Read  at  the  annual  meeting-  of  the  Massa 
chusetts  Medical  Society,  May  25,  1864. 

No  mystic  charm,  no  mortal  art, 

Can  bid  our  loved  companions  stay; 
The  bands  that  clasp  them  to  our  heart 
Snap  in  death's  frost  and  fall  apart; 
Like  shadows  fading  with  the  day, 
They  pass  away. 


The  young  are  stricken  in  their  pride, 

The  old,  long  tottering,  faint  and  fall; 
Master  and  scholar,  side  by  side, 
Through  the  dark  portals  silent  glide, 
That  open  in  life's  mouldering  wall 
And  close  on  all. 

Our  friend's,  our  teacher's  task  was  done, 
When  Mercy  called  him  from  on  high; 
A  little  cloud  had  dimmed  the  sun, 
The  saddening  hours  had  just  begun, 
And  darker  days  were  drawing  nigh: 
'T  was  time  to  die. 

A  whiter  soul,  a  fairer  mind, 

A  life  with  purer  course  and  aim, 
A  gentler  eye,  a  voice  more  kind, 
We  may  not  look  on  earth  to  find. 
The  love  that  lingers  o'er  his  name 
Is  more  than  fame. 

These  blood-red  summers  ripen  fast; 

The  sons  are  older  than  the  sires ; 
Ere  yet  the  tree  to  earth  is  cast, 
The  sapling  falls  before  the  blast; 

Life's  ashes  keep  their  covered  fires,  — 
Its  flame  expires. 

Struck  by  the  noiseless,  viewless  foe, 

Whose  deadlier  breath  than  shot  or  shell 
Has  laid  the  best  and  bravest  low, 
His  boy,  all  bright  in  morning's  glow, 
That  high-souled  youth  he  loved  so  wrell, 
Untimely  fell. 

Yet  still  he  wore  his  placid  smile, 

And,  trustful  in  the  cheering  creed 
That  strives  all  sorrow  to  beguile, 
Walked  calmly  on  his  way  awhile: 

Ah,  breast  that  leans  on  breaking  reed 
Must  ever  bleed  ! 

So  they  both  left  us,  sire  and  son, 

With  opening  leaf,  with  laden  bough: 
The  youth  whose  race  was  just  begun, 
The  wearied  man  whose  course  was  run, 
Its  record  written  on  his  brow, 
Are  brothers  now. 

Brothers  !  —  The  music  of  the  sound 

Breathes  softly  through  my  closing  strain; 
The  floor  we  tread  is  holy  ground, 
Those  gentle  spirits  hovering  round, 
While  our  fair  circle  joins  again 
Its  broken  chain. 


HUMBOLDT'S    BIRTHDAY 


HUMBOLDT'S   BIRTHDAY 

CENTENNIAL    CELEBRATION,    SEPTEMBER 
14,   1869 

BONAPARTE,    AUGUST    15,    I  769.  —  HUMBOLDT, 
SEPTEMBER    14,    1/69 

ERE  yet  the  warning  chimes  of  midnight 

sound, 

Set  back  the  flaming  index  of  the  year, 
Track  the    swift-shifting   seasons    in  their 

round 

Through  fivescore  circles  of  the  swinging- 
sphere  ! 

Lo,  in  yon  islet  of  the  midland  sea 

That    cleaves  the    storm-cloud    with    its 

snowy  crest, 

The  embryo-heir  of  Empires  yet  to  be, 
A   month-old   babe    upon    his    mother's 
breast. 

Those  little  hands  that  soon  shall  grow  so 

strong 
In  their  rude  grasp  great  thrones  shall 

rock  and  fall, 

Press  her  soft  bosom,  while  a  nursery  song   i 
Holds  the  world's  master  in  its  slender 
thrall. 

Look  !  a  new  crescent  bends  its  silver  bow; 

A  new-lit  star  has  fired  the  eastern  sky; 
Hark  !  by  the  river  where  the  lindens  blow 

A  waiting  household  hears  an  infant's  cry. 

This,  too,  a  conqueror  !     His   the  vast  do 
main, 
Wider    than    widest    sceptre  -  shadowed 

lands; 
Earth  and  the  weltering   kingdom   of  the 

main 

Laid  their  broad   charters   in    his    royal 
hands. 

His  was  no  taper  lit  in  cloistered  cage, 
Its  glimmer  borrowed  from  the  grove  or 
porch; 

He  read  the  record  of  the  planet's  page 
By  Etna's  glare  and  Cotopaxi's  torch. 

He  heard  the  voices  of  the  pathless  woods ; 

On  the  salt  steppes  he  saw  the  starlight 
,  .  ° 

shine ; 


He  scaled  the  mountain's  windy  solitudes, 
And  trod  the  galleries  of  the  breathless 
mine. 

For  him  no  fingering  of    the    love-strung 

lyre, 

Xo  problem  vague,  by  torturing  school 
men  vexed; 
He  fed  no  broken  altar's  dying  fire, 

Nor    skulked    and    scowled     behind    a 
Rabbi's  text. 

For  God's  new  truth  he  claimed  the  kingly 

robe 
That  priestly  shoulders  counted  all  their 

own, 

Unrolled  the  gospel  of  the  storied  globe 
And  led    young    Science    to    her    empty 
throne. 

While  the  round  planet  on  its  axle  spins 
One  fruitful  year  shall   boast  its  double 
birth, 

And  show  the  cradles  of  its  mighty  twins, 
Master  and  Servant  of  the  sons  of  earth. 

Which  wears  the  garland  that  shall  never 

fade, 
Sweet  with  fair  memories  that  can  never 

die  ? 
Ask  not  the  marbles  where  their  bones  are 

laid, 

But  bow  thine  ear  to  hear  thy  brothers' 
cry :  — 

'•Tear  up  the  despot's  laurels  by  the  root, 
Like  mandrakes,  shrieking  as  they  quit 

the  soil  ! 

Feed  us  no  more  upon  the  blood-red  fruit 
That  sucks  its  crimson  from  the  heart  of 
Toil  ! 

"  We  claim  the  food  that  fixed  our  mortal 

fate, — 
Bend   to   our    reach    the    long-forbidden 

tree  ! 
The    angel    frowned    at    Eden's     eastern 

gate,  — 
Its  western  portal  is  forever  free  ! 

"  Bring  the  white  blossoms  of  the  waning 

year, 

Heap  with  full  hands  the  peaceful  con 
queror's  shrine 


214 


SONGS   OF   MANY    SEASONS 


Whose  bloodless  triumphs  cost  no  sufferer's 

tear  ! 

Hero    of     knowledge,    be    our     tribute 
thine  !  " 

POEM 

AT  THE  DEDICATION   OF    THE    HALLECK 
MONUMENT,   JULY    8,    1869 

SAY  not  the  Poet  dies  ! 
Though  in  the  dust  he  lies, 
He  cannot  forfeit  his  melodious  breath, 

Unsphered  by  envious  death  ! 
Life  drops  the  voiceless  myriads  from  its 

roll; 

Their  fate  he  cannot  share, 
Who,  in  the  enchanted  air 
Sweet   with   the    lingering   strains   that 

Echo  stole, 

Has  left  his  dearer  self,  the  music  of  his 
soul  ! 

We  o'er  his  turf  may  raise 
Our  notes  of  feeble  praise, 
And  carve  with  pious  care  for  after  eyes 

The  stone  with  "Here  he  lies;" 
He  for  himself  has  built  a  nobler  shrine, 
Whose  walls  of  stately  rhyme 
Roll  back  the  tides  of  time, 
While  o'er  their  gates  the  gleaming  tab 
lets  shine 

That  wear  his  name  inwrought  with  many 
a  golden  line  ! 

Call  not  our  Poet  dead, 
Though  on  his  turf  we  tread  ! 
Green  is  the  wreath  their  brows  so  long 

have  worn,  — 
The  minstrels  of  the  morn, 
Who,  while  the  Orient  burned  with  new 
born  flame, 

Caught  that  celestial  fire 
And  struck  a  Nation's  lyre  ! 
These    taught    the    western    winds    the 

poet's  name; 

Theirs  the  first  opening  buds,  the  maiden 
flowers  of  fame  ! 

Count  not  our  Poet  dead  ! 
The  stars  shall  watch  his  bed, 
The    rose  of  June  its  fragrant  life  re 
new 
His  blushing  mound  to  strew, 


And  all  the  tuneful  throats  of  summer 

swell 

With  trills  as  crystal-clear 
As  when  he  wooed  the  ear 
Of   the  young   muse    that   haunts   each 

wooded  dell, 

With  songs  of  that  "  rough  land  "  he  loved 
so  long  and  well  ! 

He  sleeps;  he  cannot  die  ! 
As  evening's  long-drawn  sigh, 
Lifting   the  rose-leaves  on  his  peaceful 

mound, 

Spreads  all  their  sweets  around, 
So,  laden  with  his  song,  the  breezes  blow 
From  where  the  rustling  sedge 
Frets  our  rude  ocean's  edge 
To  the  smooth  sea  beyond  the  peaks  of 

snow. 

His  soul  the  air  enshrines  and  leaves  but 
dust  below  ! 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  AT  THE  LAYING 
OF  THE  CORNER-STONE  OF  HARVARD 
MEMORIAL  HALL,  CAMBRIDGE,  OCTO 
BER  6,  1870 

NOT  with  the  anguish  of   hearts  that  are 

breaking 
Come  we  as  mourners  to  weep  for  our 

dead; 
Grief  in  our  breasts  has  grown  weary  of 

aching, 

Green  is  the  turf  where  our  tears  we 
have  shed. 

While  o'er  their  marbles  the  mosses  are 

creeping, 

Stealing  each  name  and  its  legend  away, 
Give  their  proud  story  to  Memory's  keep 
ing* 
Shrined  in  the  temple  we  hallow  to-day. 

Hushed  are  their  battle-fields,  ended  their 

marches, 
Deaf  are  their  ears  to  the  drum-beat  of 

morn,  — 
Rise   from  the  sod,  ye  fair  columns  and 

arches  ! 

Tell  their  bright  deeds  to   the   ages   un 
born  ! 


AN    IMPROMPTU 


215 


Emblem  and  legend  may  fade  from  the 

portal, 
Keystone   may  crumble  and  pillar  may 

fall; 

They  were  the  builders  whose  work  is  im 
mortal, 

Crowned  with  the  dome  that  is  over  us 
all! 

HYMN 


FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  MEMORIAL  HALL 
AT  CAMBRIDGE,  JUNE  23.    1874 

WHERE,  girt  around  by  savage  foes, 
Our  nurturing  Mother's  shelter  rose, 
Behold,  the  lofty  temple  stands, 
Reared  by  her  children's  grateful  hands  ! 

Firm  are  the  pillars  that  defy 
The  volleyed  thunders  of  the  sky; 
Sweet  are  the  summer  wreaths  that  twine 
With  bud  and  flower  our  martyrs'  shrine. 

The  hues  their  tattered  colors  bore 
Fall  mingling  on  the  sunlit  floor 
Till  evening  spreads  her  spangled  pall, 
And  wraps  in  shade  the  storied  hall. 

Firm  were  their  hearts  in  danger's  hour, 
Sweet  was  their  manhood's  morning  flower, 
Their    hopes     with     rainbow     hues     were 

bright,  — 
How  swiftly  winged  the  sudden  night  ! 

O  Mother  !  on  thy  marble  page 
Thy  children  read,  from  age  to  age, 
The  mighty  word  that  upward  leads 
Through  noble  thought  to  nobler  deeds. 


TRUTH,  heaven-born  TRUTH,  their  fearless 

guide, 

Thy  saints  have  lived,  thy  heroes  died; 
Our  love  has  reared  their  earthly  shrine, 
Their  glory  be  forever  thine  ! 

HYMN 

AT  THE  FUNERAL    SERVICES  OF    CHARLES 
SUMNER,  APRIL  29.    1874 

SUNG  iiv  MALI;  VOICES  TO  A  NATIONAL  AIR 

OF    HOLLAND 

OXCE  more,  ye  sacred  towers, 

Your  solemn  dirges  sound; 
Strew,  loving  hands,  the  April  flowers, 

Once  more  to  deck  his  mound. 

A  nation  mourns  its  dead, 

Its  sorrowing  voices  one, 
As  Israel's  monarch  bowed  his  head 

And  cried,  •'  My  son  !  My  son  !  " 

Why  mourn  for  him  ?  —  For  him 

The  welcome  angel  came 
Ere  yet  his  eye  with  age  was  dim 

Or  bent  his  stately  frame; 

His  weapon  still  was  bright, 

His  shield  was  lifted  high 
To  slay  the  wrong,  to  save  the  right, 

What  happier  hour  to  die  ? 

Thou  ordcrest  all  things  well ; 

Thy  servant's  work  was  done; 
He  lived  to  hear  Oppression's  knell, 

The  shouts  for  Freedom  won. 

Hark  !  from  the  opening  skies 

The  anthem's  echoing  swell,  — 
"O  mourning  Land,  lift  up  thine  eyes  ! 

God  reigneth.     All  is  well  !  " 


RHYMES    OF   AN    HOUR 


AN    IMPROMPTU 

AT  THE  WALCKER  DINNER  UPON  THE 
COMPLETION  OF  THE  GREAT  ORGAN 
FOR  BOSTON  MUSIC  HALL  IN  1863 

I  ASKED  three  little  maidens  who  heard  the 

organ  play, 
Where  all  the  music  came  from  that  stole 

our  hearts  awav: 


"  I  know,"  —  said  fair-haired  Edith,  —  "  it 

was  the  autumn  breeze 
That  whistled  through   the  hollows  of  all 

those  silver  trees." 

"  No,  child  !  "  —  said  keen-eyed  Clara,  — 

"  it  is  a  lion's  cage,  — 
They  woke  him  out  of  slumber,  —  I  heard 

him  roar  and  rage." 


2l6 


SONGS   OF   MANY    SEASONS 


"  Nay,"  —  answered  soft-voiced  Anna,  — 
"  't  was  thunder  that  you  heard, 

And  after  that  came  sunshine  and  singing 
of  a  bird." 

"  Hush,  hush,  you  little  children,  for  all  of 

you  are  wrong," 
I  said,  "  my  pretty  darlings,  —  it  was  no 

earthly  song; 
A   band   of    blessed   angels    has   left   the 

heavenly  choirs, 
And  what   you   heard   last   evening  were 

seraph  lips  and  lyres  !  " 


ADDRESS 

FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  FIFTH  AV 
ENUE  THEATRE,  NEW  YORK,  DECEM 
BER  3,  1873 

HANG  out   our  banners    on  the   stately 

tower  ! 

It  dawns  at  last  —  the  long-expected  hour  ! 
The  steep  is.  climbed,  the   star-lit  summit 

won, 

The  builder's  task,  the  artist's  labor  done; 
Before  the  finished  work  the  herald  stands, 
And   asks   the    verdict   of  your   lips   and 

hands  ! 

Shall  rosy  daybreak  make  us  all  forget 

The  golden  sun  that  yester-evening  set  ? 

Fair  was  the  fabric  doomed  to  pass  away 

Ere  the  last  headaches  born  of  New  Year's 
Day; 

With  blasting  breath  the  fierce  destroyer 
came 

And  wrapped  the  victim  in  his  robes  of 
flame; 

The  pictured  sky  with  redder  morning 
blushed, 

With  scorching  streams  the  naiad's  foun 
tain  gushed, 

With  kindling  mountains  glowed  the  fune 
ral  pyre, 

Forests  ablaze  and  rivers  all  on  fire,  — 

The  scenes  dissolved,  the  shriveling  curtain 
fell,  - 

Art  spread  her  wings  and  sighed  a  long 
farewell  ! 

Mourn    o'er    the    Player's    melancholy 

plight,  — 
Falstaif  in  tears,  Othello  deadly  white,  — 


Poor  Romeo  reckoning  what   his  doublet 

cost, 
And   Juliet   whimpering   for   her    dresses 

lost,  — 
Their  wardrobes  burned,  their  salaries  all 

undrawn, 
Their    cues    cut    short,    their    occupation 

gone  ! 

"  Lie  there  in  dust,"  the  red-winged  de 
mon  cried, 
"Wreck    of    the   lordly   city's   hope    and 

pride  !  " 
Silent  they  stand,  and  stare  with  vacant 

gaze, 
While   o'er   the    embers    leaps   the   fitful 

blaze; 
When,    lo  !    a   hand,   before   the   startled 

train, 

Writes  in  the  ashes,  "  It  shall  rise  again,  — 
Rise  and  confront  its  elemental  foes  !  " 
The  word  was  spoken,  and  the  walls  arose, 
And  ere  the  seasons  round  their  brief  ca 
reer 

The   new-born   temple   waits   the    unborn 
year. 

Ours  was  the  toil  of  many  a  weary  day 
Your  smiles,  your  plaudits,  only  can  repay; 
We    are    the    monarchs    of    the    painted 

scenes, 

You,  you  alone  the  real  Kings  and  Queens  ! 
Lords   of    the   little    kingdom   where   we 

meet, 

We  lay  our  gilded  sceptres  at  your  feet, 
Place  in  your  grasp  our  portal's  silvered 

keys 
With  one  brief   utterance:    We  have  tried 

to  please. 

Tell  us,  ye  sovereigns  of  the  new  domain. 
Are   you   content  —  or   have  we  toiled  in 

vain  ? 

With  no  irreverent  glances  look  around 
The  realm    you   rule,  for  this  is  haunted 

ground  ! 
Here  stalks  the  Sorcerer,  here  the  Fairy 

trips, 

Here  limps  the  Witch  with  malice-work 
ing  lips, 

The  Graces  here  their  snowy  arms  entwine, 
Here    dwell    the    fairest    sisters    of    the 

Nine,  — 

She  who,  with  jocund  voice  and  twinkling 
eye, 


OPENING   OF   THE   FIFTH    AVENL'E    THEATRE 


217 


Laughs  at  the  brood  of  follies  as  they  fly; 
She  of  the  dagger  and  the  deadly  bowl, 
Whose  charming  horrors  thrill  the  trem 
bling  soul; 

She  who,  a  truant  from  celestial  spheres, 
In  mortal  semblance  now  and  then  appears, 
Stealing   the    fairest    earthly    shape    she 

can  — 

Sontag  or  Nilsson,  Lind  or  Malibran; 
With    these    the    spangled    liouri    of    the 

dance,  — 
What   shaft   so  dangerous  as  her  melting 

glance, 

As  poised  in  air  she  spurns  the  earth  below, 
And  points  aloft  her  heavenly-minded  toe! 

What  were  our  life,  with  all  its  rents  and 

seams, 
Stripped   of  its  purple    robes,  our  waking 

dreams  ? 

The  poet's  song,  the  bright  romancer's  page, 
The   tinselled  shows  that  cheat   us  on   the 

stage 

Lead  all  our  fancies  captive  at  their  will; 
Three  years  or  threescore,  we  are  children 

still. 

The  little  listener  on  his  father's  knee, 
With    wandering      Sindbad    ploughs     the 

stormy  sea, 

With  Gotham's  sages  hears  the  billows  roll 
(Illustrious  trio  of  the  venturous  bowl, 
Too   early  shipwrecked,  for  thev  died  too 

soon 
To  see   their   offspring  launch    the    great 

balloon)  ; 
Tracks   the  dark  brigand  to  his  mountain 

lair, 

Slays  the  grim  giant,  saves  the  lady  fair, 
Fights  all  his  country's  battles  o'er  again 
From  Bunker's  blazing  height  to  Lundy's 

Lane ; 
Floats  with  the   mighty  captains  as   they 

sailed, 
Before   whose  flag   the    flaming  red-cross 

paled, 

And  claims  the  oft-told  story  of  the  scars 
Scarce  yet  grown  white,  that  saved  the 

stripes  and  stars  ! 

Children  of   later  growth,  we  love  the 

FLAY, 

We  love  its  heroes,  be  they  grave  or  gay, 
From     squeaking,    peppery,    devil-defying 
Punch 


To  roaring  Richard  with  his  camel-hunch; 
Adore  its  heroines,  those  immortal  dames, 
Time's  only  rivals,  whom  he  never  tames, 
Whose  youth,  unchanging,  lives  while 

thrones  decay 

(Age  spares  the  Pyramids  —  and  Dejazet) ; 
The   saucy  -  aproned,  razor  -  tongued    sou- 

bre'tte, 
The  blond-haired  beautv  with  the  eyes  of 

jet, 
The   gorgeous   Beings  whom  the  viewless 

wires 
Lift   to   the  skies    in    strontian-crimsoned 

fires, 

And  all  the  wealth  of  splendor  that  awaits 
The  throng  that  enters  those  Elysian  gates. 

See  where  the  hurrying  crowd  impatient 
pours, 

With  noise  of  trampling  feet  and  flapping- 
doors, 

Streams  to  the  numbered  seat  each  paste 
board  fits 

And  smooths  its  caudal  plumage  as  it  sits  ; 

Waits  while  the  slow  musicians  saunter 
in, 

Till  the  bald  leader  taps  his  violin; 

Till  the  old  overture  we  know  so  well, 

Zampa  or  Magic  Flute  or  William  Tell, 

Has  done  its  worst  —  then  hark  !  the 
tinkling  bell  ! 

The  crash  is  o'er — the  crinkling  curtain 
furled, 

And  lo  !  the  glories  of  that  brighter  world  ! 

Behold    the    offspring    of   the    Thespian 

cart, 

This  full-grown  temple  of  the  magic  art, 
Where  all  the  conjurers  of  illusion  meet, 
And  please  us  all  the  more,  the  more  thev 

cheat. 

These  are  the  wizards  and  the  witches  too 
Who  win  their  honest  bread  by  cheating 

you 

With  cheeks  that  drown  in  artificial  tears 
And  lying  skull-caps  white  with  seventy 

years, 

Sweet-tempered  matrons  changed  to  scold 
ing  Kates, 
Maids    mild   as     moonbeams     crazed  with 

murderous  hates, 
Kind,  simple  souls  that  stab  and  slash  and 

slay 
And  stick  at  nothing,  if  it 's  in  the  play  ! 


2l8 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS 


Would  all  the  world  told  half  as  harm 
less  lies  ! 

Would  all  its  real  fools  were  half  as  wise 
As  he  who  blinks  through  dull  Dundreary's 

eyes  ! 

Would  all  the  unhanged  bandits  of  the  age 
Were  like   the   peaceful    ruffians   of    the 

stage  ! 
Would  all  the  cankers  wasting  town  and 

state, 
The   mob   of    rascals,   little    thieves    and 

great, 
Dealers    in    watered    milk    and    watered 

stocks, 
Who   lead   us   lambs   to   pasture    on    the 

rocks,  — 
Shepherds  —  Jack    Sheppards  —  of    their 

city  flocks,  — 
The  rings  of  rogues  that  rob  the  luckless 

town, 

Those  evil  angels  creeping  up  and  down 
The  Jacob's  ladder  of  the  treasury  stairs, — 
Not    stage,   but   real    Turpins    and    Ma- 

caires,  — 
Could   doff,   like   us,  their   knavery    with 

their  clothes, 
And  find  it  easy  as  forgetting  oaths  ! 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome  to  our  virgin 

dome, 
The  Muses'  shrine,  the  Drama's  new-found 

home  ! 
Here  shall   the  Statesman  rest  his  weary 

brain, 

The  worn-out  Artist  find  his  wits  again; 
Here  Trade  forget  his  ledger  and  his  cares, 
And  sweet  communion  mingle  Bulls  and 

Bears; 

Here   shall  the   youthful    Lover,   nestling- 
near 
The  shrinking  maiden,  her  he  holds  most 

dear, 

Gaze  on  the  mimic  moonlight  as  it  falls 
On  painted  groves,  on  sliding  canvas  walls, 
And  sigh,  "  My   angel !    What    a   life   of 

bliss 
We   two   could   live   in  such   a   world   as 

this  !  " 

Here  shall  the  timid  pedants  of  the  schools, 
The  gilded  boors,  the  labor-scorning  fools, 
The    grass-green   rustic   and   the    smoke- 
dried  cit, 

Feel  each  in  turn  the  stinging  lash  of  wit, 
And  as  it  tingles  on  some  tender  part 
Each  find  a  balsam  in  his  neighbor's  smart; 


So  every  folly  prove  a  fresh  delight 
As  in  the  picture  of  our  play  to-night. 

Farewell  !    The  Players  wait  the  Prompt 
er's  call; 

Friends,  lovers,   listeners!     Welcome  one 
and  all  ! 


A  SEA  DIALOGUE 

NOVEMBER  IO,  1864 

Cabin  Passenger  Man  at  Wheel 

CABIN   PASSENGER 

FRIEND,  you  seem  thoughtful.  I  not  won 
der  much 

That  he  who  sails  the  ocean  should  be  sad. 

I  am  myself  reflective.     When  I  think 

Of  all  this  wallowing  beast,  the  Sea,  has 
sucked 

Between  his  sharp  thin  lips,  the  wedgy 
waves, 

What  heaps  of  diamonds,  rubies,  emeralds, 
pearls; 

What  piles  of  shekels,  talents,  ducats, 
crowns, 

What  bales  of  Tyrian  mantles,  Indian 
shawls, 

Of  laces  that  have  blanked  the  weavers' 
eyes, 

Of  silken  tissues,  wrought  by  worm  and 
man, 

The  half-starved  workman,  and  the  well- 
fed  worm; 

What  marbles,  bronzes,  pictures,  parch 
ments,  books; 

What  many-lobuled,  thought-engendering 
brains ; 

Lie  with  the  gaping  sea-shells  in  his 
maw,  — 

I,  too,  am  silent;  for  all  language  seems 

A  mockery,  and  the  speech  of  man  is  vain. 

O  mariner,  we  look  upon  the  waves 

And  they  rebuke  our  babbling.  "  Peace!  " 
they  say, — 

"  Mortal,  be  still !  "  My  noisy  tongue  is 
hushed, 

And  with  my  trembling  finger  on  my  lips 

My  soul  exclaims  in  ecstasy  — 


MAN   AT   WHEEL 


Belay  ! 


A    SEA    DIALOGUE 


219 


CABIN   PASSENGER 

All  yes!  "  Delay,"  —  it  calls,  "  nor  haste  to 

break 

The  charm  of  stillness  with  an  idle  word!  " 
O  mariner,  I  love  thee,  for  thy  thought 
Strides    even   with   my   own,  nay,  flies   be 
fore. 

Thou  art  a  brother  to  the  wind  and  wave; 
Have    they   not    music    for   thine    ear   as 

mine, 
When  the  wild  tempest  makes  thy  ship  his 

lyre, 
Smiting1    a    cavernous    basso      from     the 

shrouds 
And    climbing  up  his   gamut  through  the 

stays, 
Through  bimtlines,   bowlines,  ratlines,  till 

it  .shrills 

An  alto  keener  than  the  locust  sings, 
And  all  the  great  ^Eolian  orchestra 
Storms  out  its  mad  sonata  in  the  gale  ? 
Is  not  the  scene  a  wondrous  and  — 


MAN    AT    WHEEL 


CABIN   PASSENGER 


Avast  ! 


Ah  yes,  a  vast,  a  vast  and  wondrous  scene  ! 
I  see  thy  soul  is  open  as  the  day 
That  holds  the  sunshine  in  its  azure  bowl 
To  all  the  solemn  glories  of  the  deep. 
Tell  me,  O  mariner,  dost  thou  never  feel 
The  grandeur  of  thine  office,  —  to  control 
The  keel  that  cuts  the  ocean  like  a  knife 
And  leaves  a  wake  behind  it  like  a  seam 
In  the  great  shining  garment  of  the  world  ? 

.MAN    AT    WHEEL 

Belay  y'r  jaw,  y'  swab  !  y'  hoss-marine  ! 

(To  the  Captain.} 
Ay,  ay,  Sir  !  Stiddy,  Sir  !     Sou'wes'  b'sou'  ! 

CHANSON  WITHOUT  MUSIC 

BY  THE    PROFESSOR    EMERITUS    OF    DEAD 
AND    LIVE    LANGUAGES 

PHI    BETA    KAPPA.  —  CAMBRIDGE,   1867 

You  bid  me  sing,  —  can  I  forget 
The  classic  ode  of  days  gone  by.  — 


How  belle  Fifine  and  jeune  Lisette 
Exclaimed,  "  Anacreon,  geron  ei  "  ? 

"  liegardez  done,"  those  ladies  said,  — 
"  You  're  getting  bald  and  wrinkled  too: 

When  summer's  roses  all  are  shed, 
Love  's  millum  ite,  voyez-vous  !  " 

In  vain  ce  brave  Anacreon's  cry, 

"  Of  Love  alone  my  banjo  sings  " 
(P^rota  mounon).     "  Etiam  si, — 

Eh  b'en  ?  "  replied  the  saucy  things,  — 
"  Go  find  a  maid  whose  hair  is  gray, 

And  strike  your  lyre,  —  we  sha'n't  com 
plain: 
But  parce  nobis,  s'il  vous  plait,  — 

Voila  Adolphe  !     Voilh,  Eugene  !  " 

Ah,  jeune  Lisette  !     Ah,  belle  Eifine  ! 
Anacreon's  lesson  all  must  learn; 

0  kairos  oxiis;   Spring  is  green, 
But  Acer  Hyems  waits  his  turn  ! 

1  hear  you  whispering  from  the  dust, 

"  Tiens,  inon  cher,  c'est  toujours  so,  — 
The  brightest  blade  grows  dim  with  rust, 
The  fairest  meadow  white  with  snow  !  " 

You  do  not  mean  it  !     Not  encore  ? 

Another  string  of  playday  rhymes  ? 
You  've  heard  me  —  nonnc  est  ?  —  before, 

Mnltoties,  —  more  than  twenty  times; 
Xon  possum,  —  vraiment,  —  pas  du  tout, 

I  cannot  !     I  am  loath  to  shirk; 
But  who  will  listen  if  I  do, 

My  memory  makes  such  shocking  work  ? 

Gindsko.     Scio.     Yes,  I  'm  told 

Some  ancients  like  my  rusty  lay, 
As  Grandpa  Xoah  loved  the  old 

Red-sandstone  march  of  JubaPs  day. 
I  used  to  carol  like  the  birds, 

But  time  my  wits  has  quite  unfixed, 
Et  quoad  verba,  —  for  my  words,  — 

Ciel  !   Elieu  !    Whe-ew  !  — how    they're 
mixed  ! 

Mehercle  !     Zen  !     Diablc  !    how 

My  thoughts  were  dressed  when  I  was 

young, 
But  tern  pus  fugit  !  see  them  now 

Half  clad  in  rags  of  every  tongue  ! 
O  philoi,  fratres,  chers  amis  ! 

I  dare  not  court  the  youthful  Muse, 
For  fear  her  sharp  response  should  be, 

"  Papa  Anacreon,  please  excuse  ! " 


220 


SONGS   OF   MANY    SEASONS 


Adieu  !     I  've  trod  my  annual  track 

How  long !  —  let  others  count  the  miles, — 
And  peddled  out  my  rhyming  pack 

To  friends  who  always  paid  in  smiles. 
So,  laissez-moi !  some  youthful  wit 

No  doubt  has  wares  he  wants  to  show; 
And  I  am  asking,  "  Let  me  sit," 

Dum  ille  clamat,  "  Dos  pou  sto  !  " 

FOR  THE  CENTENNIAL  DINNER 

OF   THE   PROPRIETORS   OF   BOSTON    PIER, 
OR  THE  LONG  WHARF,  APRIL  1 6,  1873 

DEAR  friends,  we  are  strangers;  we  never 
before 

Have  suspected  what  love  to  each  other  we 
bore; 

But  each  of  us  all  to  his  neighbor  is  dear, 

Whose  heart  has  a  throb  for  our  time- 
honored  pier. 

As  I  look  on  each  brother  proprietor's 
face, 

I  could  open  my  arms  in  a  loving  em 
brace  ; 

What  wonder  that  feelings,  undreamed  of 
so  long, 

Should  burst  all  at  once  in  a  blossom  of 
song  ! 

While  I  turn  my  fond  glance  on  the  mon 
arch  of  piers, 

Whose  throne  has  stood  firm  through  his 
eightscore  of  years, 

My  thought  travels  backward  and  reaches 
the  day 

When  they  drove  the  first  pile  on  the  edge 
of  the  bay. 

See  !   The  joiner,  the  shipwright,  the  smith 

from  his  forge, 
The  redcoat,    who   shoulders   his  gun  for 

King  George, 
The  shopman,  the  'prentice,  the  boys  from 

the  lane, 
The   parson,  the  doctor  with  gold-headed 

cane, 

Come  trooping  down  King  Street,  where 
now  may  be  seen 

The  pulleys  and  ropes  of  a  mighty  ma 
chine  ; 


The  weight   rises  slowly;  it  drops  with  a 

thud; 
And,  lo  !  the  great  timber  sinks  deep  in 

the  mud  ! 

They  are  gone,  the  stout  craftsmen  that 
hammered  the  piles, 

And  the  square-toed  old  boys  in  the  three- 
cornered  tiles; 

The  breeches,  the  buckles,  have  faded 
from  view, 

And  the  parson's  white  wig  and  the  ribbon- 
tied  queue. 

The  redcoats  have  vanished;  the  last  gren 
adier 

Stepped  into  the  boat  from  the  end  of  our 
pier; 

They  found  that  our  hills  were  not  easy  to 
climb, 

And  the  order  came,  "  Countermarch, 
double-quick  time  ! " 

They  are  gone,  friend  and  foe,  —  anchored 

fast  at  the  pier, 
Whence   no   vessel   brings   back   its    pale 

passengers  here; 
But  our  wharf,  like  a  lily,  still  floats  on  the 

flood, 
Its  breast  in  the  sunshine,  its  roots  in  the 

mud. 

Who  —  who  that  has  loved  it  so  long  and 

so  well  — 
The  flower  of  his  birthright  would  barter 

or  sell  ? 
No :  pride  of  the  bay,  while  its  ripples  shall 

run, 
You  shall  pass,  as  an  heirloom,  from  father 

to  son  ! 

Let  me  part  with  the  acres  my  grandfather 

bought, 
With  the  bonds  that  my  uncle's  kind  leg 


acy  brought, 
With    my    bank  -  shares,  —  old 
whose  ten  per  cent  stock 


Union," 


Stands  stiff  through  the  storms  as  the  Ed- 
dystone  rock; 

With   my   rights  (or   my   wrongs)  in   the 

"Erie,"— alas  ! 
With   my    claims    on    the   mournful   and 

"Mutual  Mass.;" 


A   POEM    SERVED    TO    ORDER 


221 


With  mv  u  Phil.  Wil.  and  Bait.,"  with  my 

«C.  B.  anclQ.;" 
But  I  never,  no  never,  will    sell   out   of 

you. 

We  drink  to  thy  past  and  thy  future  to 
day, 

Strong  right  arm  of  Boston,  stretched  out 
o'er  the  bay. 

May  the  winds  waft  the  wealth  of  all  na 
tions  to  thee, 

And  thy  dividends  flow  like  the  waves  of 
the  sea  ! 


A  POEM  SERVED  TO  ORDER 

PHI  BETA    KAPPA,  JUNK    26,   1 8/3 

THE  Caliph  ordered  up  his  cook, 
And,  scowling  with  ,1  fearful  look 

That  meant,  —  We  stand  no  gammon,  - 
"To-morrow,  just  at  two,"  he  said, 
"  Hassan,  our  cook,  will  lose  his  head, 

Or  serve  us  up  a  salmon." 

"Great  sire,"  the  trembling  chef  replied, 
"  Lord  of  the  Earth  and  all  beside, 

Sun,  Moon,  and  Stars,  and  so  on  " 
(Look  in  Eothen,  —  there  you  '11  find 
A  list  of  titles.     Never  mind; 

I  have  n't  time  to  go  on:) 

"  Great  sire,"  and  so  forth,  thus  he  spoke, 
"  Your  Highness  must  intend  a  joke; 

It  does  n't  stand  to  reason 
For  one  to  order  salmon  brought, 
Unless  that  fish  is  sometimes  caught, 

And  also  is  in  season. 

"  Our  luck  of  late  is  shocking  bad, 
In  fact,  the  latest  catch  we  had 

(We  kept  the  matter  shady), 
But,  hauling  in  our  nets,  —  alack  ! 
We  found  no  salmon,  but  a  sack 

That  held  your  honored  Lady  !  " 

"Allah  is  great  ! "  the  Caliph  said, 
"  My  poor  Zuleika,  you  are  dead, 

I  once  took  interest  in  yon." 
"  Perhaps,  my  Lord,  you  'd  like  to  know 
We  cut  the  lines  and  let  her  go." 

"  Allah  be  praised  !     Continue." 


"  It  is  n't  hard  one's  hook  to  bait, 

And,  squatting  down,  to  watch  and  wait, 

To  see  the  cork  go  under; 
At  last  suppose  you  've  got  your  bite, 
You  twitch  away  with  all  your  might,  — 

You  've  hooked  an  eel,  by  thunder  !  " 

The  Caliph  patted  Hassan's  head  : 

"  Slave,  thou  hast  spoken  well,"  he  said, 

"  And  won  thy  master's  favor. 
Yes;  since  what  happened  t'other  morn 
The  salmon  of  the  Golden  Horn 

Might  have  a  doubtful  flavor. 

"  That  last  remark  about  the  eel 
Has  also  justice  that  we  feel 

Quite  to  our  satisfaction. 
To-morrow  we  dispense  with  fish, 
And,  for  the  present,  if  you  wish, 

Yrou  '11  keep  your  bulbous  fraction." 

"  Thanks  !  thanks  !  "  the  grateful  chef  re 
plied, 
II is  nutrient  feature  showing  wide 

The  gleam  of  arches  dental: 
"  To  cut  my  head  off  would  n't  pay, 
I  find  it  useful  every  day, 

As  well  as  ornamental." 


Brothers,  I  hope  you  will  not  fail 
To  see  the  moral  of  my  tale 

And  kindly  to  receive  it. 
You  know  your  anniversary  pie 
Must    have    its    crust,  though    hard    and 
dry, 

And  some  prefer  to  leave  it. 

How  oft  before  these  youths  were  born 
I  've  fished  in  Fancy's  Golden  Horn 

For  what  the  Muse  might  send  me  ! 
How  gayly  then  I  cast  the  line, 
When  all  the  morning  sky  was  mine, 

And  Hope  her  flies  would  lend  me  ! 

And  now  I  hear  our  despot's  call, 
And  come,  like  Hassan,  to  the  hall,  — 

If  there  's  a  slave,  I  am  one,  — 
My  bait  no  longer  flies,  but  worms  ! 
I  've    caught  —  Lord    bless   me  !    how   he 
squirms  ! 

An  eel,  and  not  a  salmon  ! 


SONGS  OF   MANY   SEASONS 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

READ  AT  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  HAR 
VARD  ALUMNI  ASSOCIATION,  JUNE  25, 
1873 

THE  fount  the  Spaniard  sought  in  vain 

Through  all  the  land  of  flowers 
Leaps  glittering  from  the  sandy  plain 

Our  classic  grove  embowers; 
Here  youth,  unchanging,  blooms  and  smiles, 

Here  dwells  eternal  spring, 
And  warm  from  Hope's  elysian  isles 

The  winds  their  perfume  bring. 

Here  every  leaf  is  in  the  bud, 

Each  singing  throat  in  tune, 
And  bright  o'er  evening's  silver  flood 

Shines  the  young  crescent  moon. 
What  wonder  Age  forgets  his  staff 

And  lays  his  glasses  down 
And  gray-haired  grandsires  look  and  laugh 

As  when  their  locks  were  brown  ! 

With  ears  grown  dull  and  eyes  grown  dim 

They  greet  the  joyous  day 
That  calls  them  to  the  fountain's  brim 

To  wash  their  years  away. 
What  change  has  clothed  the  ancient  sire 

In  sudden  youth  ?     For,  lo  ! 
The  Judge,  the  Doctor,  and  the  Squire 

Are  Jack  and  Bill  and  Joe  ! 

And  be  his  titles  what  they  will, 

In  spite  of  manhood's  claim 
The  graybeard  is  a  school-boy  still 

And  loves  his  school-boy  name; 
It  calms  the  ruler's  stormy  breast 

Whom  hurrying  care  pursues, 
And  brings  a  sense  of  peace  and  rest, 

Like  slippers  after  shoes. 

And  what  are  all  the  prizes  won 

To  youth's  enchanted  view  ? 
And  what  is  all  the  man  has  done 

To  what  the  boy  may  do  ? 

0  blessed  fount,  whose  waters  flow 
Alike  for  sire  and  son, 

That  melts  our  winter's  frost  and  snow 
And  makes  all  ages  one  ! 

1  pledge  the  sparkling  fountain's  tide, 
That  flings  its  golden  shower 

With  age  to  fill  and  youth  to  guide, 
Still  fresh  in  morning  flower  ! 


Flow  on  with  ever- widening  stream, 
In  ever-brightening  morn,  — 

Our  story's  pride,  our  future's  dream, 
The  hope  of  times  unborn  ! 


NO  TIME  LIKE   THE    OLD   TIME 

1865 

THERE  is  no  time  like  the  old  time,  when 

you  and  I  were  young, 
When  the  buds  of  April  blossomed,  and  the 

birds  of  spring-time  sung  ! 
The  garden's  brightest  glories  by  summer 

suns  are  nursed, 
But  oh,  the  sweet,  sweet  violets,  the  flowers 

that  opened  first ! 

There  is  no  place  like  the  old  place,  where 

you  and  I  were  born, 
Where  we  lifted  first  our  eyelids  on  the 

splendors  of  the  morn 
From  the  milk-white  breast  that  warmed 

us,  from  the  clinging  arms  that  bore, 
Where  the  dear  eyes  glistened  o'er  us  that 

will  look  on  us  no  more  ! 

There  is  no  friend  like  the  old  friend,  who 

has  shared  our  morning  days, 
No  greeting  like  his  welcome,  no  homage 

like  his  praise: 
Fame  is  the  scentless  sunflower,  with  gaudy 

crown  of  gold; 
But  friendship  is  the  breathing  rose,  with 

sweets  in  every  fold. 

There  is  no  love  like  the  old  love,  that  we 

courted  in  our  pride; 
Though  our  leaves  are  falling,  falling,  and 

we  're  fading  side  by  side, 
There  are  blossoms  all  around  us  with  the 

colors  of  our  dawn, 
And  we  live  in  borrowed  sunshine  when  the 

day-star  is  withdrawn. 

There  are  no  times  like  the  old  times,  — 

they  shall  never  be  forgot  ! 
There  is  no  place  like  the  old  place,  —  keep 

green  the  dear  old  spot ! 
There  are  no  friends  like  our.old  friends,  — 

may  Heaven  prolong  their  lives  ! 
There  are  no  loves  like   our  old  loves,  — 

God  bless  our  loving  wives  ! 


A    HYMN   OF   PEACE 


223 


A    HYMN    OF   PEACE 

SUNG  AT  THE  "JUBILEE,"  JUNE  15,  1869, 
TO  THE  MUSIC  OF  KELLER'S  "AMERI 
CAN  HYMN  " 

ANGEL  of  Peace,  tliou  hast  wandered  too 

long- ! 
Spread  thy  white  wings  to  the  sunshine 

of  love  ! 
Come    while    our   voices    are    blended    in 

song1,  — 
Fly  to   our   ark   like    the    storm-beaten 

dove  ! 

Fly  to  our  ark  on  the  wings  of  the  dove,  — 
Speed  o'er  the  far-sounding'  billows  of 

song, 
Crowned  with  thine  olive-leaf  garland  of 

love,  — 
Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  waited  too  long! 

Joyous  we  meet,  on  this  altar  of  thine 
Mingling  the  gifts  we  have  gathered  for 
thee, 


Sweet  with  the  odors  of  myrtle  and  pine, 
Breeze  of  the  prairie  and  breath  of  the 

sea,  — 
Meadow    and   mountain    and    forest    and 

sea  ! 
Sweet   is  the  fragrance  of    myrtle    and 

pine, 
Sweeter  the  incense  we  offer  to  thee, 

Brothers,  once  more  round  this  altar  of 
thine  ! 

Angels  of  Bethlehem,  answer  the  strain  ! 
Hark !    a  new   birth-song  is  tilling   the 

sky  !  — 
Loud  as  the  storm-wind  that  tumbles  the 

main 
Bid    the    full   breath  of   the    organ  re- 

P1)'*  — 

Let  the  loud  tempest  of  voices  reply,  — 
.Roll  its  long  surge  like  the  earth-shaking 

main  ! 
Swell  the  vast  song  till  it   mounts  to  the 

sky  !  — 
Angels  of  Bethlehem,  echo  the  strain  ! 


BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE   AND    OTHER   POEMS 


1874-1877 


GRANDMOTHER'S       STORY      OF 
BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE 

AS  SHE  SAW  IT  FROM  THE  BELFRY 

The  story  of  Bunker  Hill  battle  is  told  as 
literally  in  accordance  with  the  best  authorities 
as  it  would  have  been  if  it  had  been  written  in 
prose  instead  of  in  verse.  I  have  often  been 
asked  what  steeple  it  was  from  which  the  little 
group  I  speak  of  looked  upon  the  conflict.  To 
this  I  answer  that  I  am  not  prepared  to  speak  au 
thoritatively,  but  that  the  reader  may  take  his 
choice  among1  all  the  steeples  standing  at  that 
time  in  the  northern  part  of  the  city.  Christ 
Church  in  Salem  Street  is  the  one  I  always 
think  of,  but  I  do  not  insist  upon  its  claim. 
As  to  the  personages  who  made  up  the  small 
company  that  followed  the  old  corporal,  it 
would  be  hard  to  identify  them,  but  by  ascer 
taining  where  the  portrait  by  Copley  is  now  to 
be  found,  some  light  may  be  thrown  on  their 
personality. 

Daniel  Malcolm's  gravestone,  splintered  by 
British  bullets,  may  be  seen  in  the  Copp's 
Hill  burial-ground. 

'T  is  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at 

eighty,  one  remembers 
All  the  achings  and  the  quakings  of  "  the 

times  that  tried  men's  souls;" 
When  I  talk  of  Whig  and  Tory,  when  I 

tell  the  Rebel  story, 
To  you  the  words   are   ashes,  but  to  me 

they  're  burning  coals. 

I  had  heard  the  muskets'    rattle   of   the 

April  running  battle; 
Lord  Percy's  hunted   soldiers,  I  can   see 

their  reel  coats  still; 
But  a  deadly  chill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the 

day  looms  up  before  me, 
When  a  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on  the 

slopes  of  Bunker's  Hill. 


'T  was  a  peaceful  summer's  morning, 
when  the  first  thing  gave  us  warn 
ing 

Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the 
river  and  the  shore: 

"  Child,"  says  grandma,  "  what 's  the  mat 
ter,  what  is  all  this  noise  and  clat 
ter? 

Have  those  scalping  Indian  devils  come  to 
murder  us  once  more  ?  " 

Poor  old  soul  !  my  sides  were  shaking  in 

the  midst  of  all  my  quaking, 
To  hear  her  talk  of  Indians  when  the  guns 

began  to  roar: 
She  had  seen  the  burning  village,  and  the 

slaughter  and  the  pillage, 
When  the  Mohawks  killed  her  father  with 

their  bullets  through  his  door. 

Then  I  said,  "  Now,  dear  old  granny,  don't 

you  fret  and  worry  any, 
For    I'll    soon   come   back   and    tell   you 

whether  this  is  work  or  play; 
There  can't  be  mischief  in  it,  so  I  won't 

be  gone  a  minute  "  — 
For  a  minute  then  I  started.     I  was  gone 

the  livelong  day. 

No  time  for  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking- 
glass  grimacing; 

Down  my  hair  went  as  I  hurried,  tumbling 
half-way  to  my  heels; 

God  forbid  your  ever  knowing,  when 
there  's  blood  around  her  flowing, 

How  the  lonely,  helpless  daughter  of  a 
quiet  household  feels  ! 

In  the   street  I  heard  a  thumping;  and  I 

knew  it  was  the  stumping 
Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on  that 

wooden  leg  he  wore, 


224 


GRANDMOTHER'S    STORY   OF    BUNKER-HILL    BATTLE 


With  a  knot  of  women  round  him,  —  it  was 
lucky  I  had  found  him, 

So  I  followed  with  the  others,  and  the  Cor 
poral  marched  before. 

They  were  making  for  the   steeple,  —  the 

old  soldier  and  his  people ; 
The  pigeons  circled  round  us  as  we  climbed 

the  creaking  stair. 
Just  across  the  narrow  river  —  oh,  so  close 

it  made  me  shiver  !  — 
Stood  a   fortress  on  the  hill-top  that  but 

yesterday  was  bare. 

Xot  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it;  well  we  knew 

who  stood  behind  it, 
Though  the    earthwork  hid  them  from  us, 

and  the  stubborn  walls  were  dumb: 
Here  were  sister,  wife,  and  mother,  looking 

wild  upon  each  other, 
And   their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as 

they  said,  THE  HOUR  HAS  COMK  ! 

The  morning   slowly  wasted,  not  a  morsel 

had  we  tasted, 
And  our  heads  were  almost  splitting  with 

the  cannons'  deafening  thrill, 
When  a  figure   tall  and  stately  round  the 

rampart  strode  sedately; 
It  was   PKESCOTT,  one   since  told  rnc;  he 

commanded  on  the  hill. 

Every  woman's  heart  grew  bigger  when 
we  saw  his  manly  figure, 

With  the  banyan  buckled  round  it,  stand 
ing  up  so  straight  and  tall; 

Like  a  gentleman  of  leisure  who  is  stroll 
ing  out  for  pleasure, 

Through  the  storm  of  shells  and  cannon- 
shot  he  walked  around  the  wall. 

At  eleven  the  streets  were   swarming,  for 

the  redcoats'  ranks  were  forming; 
At    noon    in    marching    order    they    were 

moving  to  the  piers; 
How  the  bayonets  gleamed  and  glistened, 

as  we  looked  far  down,  and  listened 
To  the  trampling  and  the  drum-beat  of  the 

belted  grenadiers  ! 


And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as  after 

a  sea-fight's  slaughter, 
Round  the  barges  gliding  onward  blushed 

like  blood  along  their  tracks. 

So  they  crossed  to  the  other  border,  and 

again  they  formed  in  order; 
And  the  boats  came  back  for  soldiers,  came 

for  soldiers,  soldiers  still: 
The  time  seemed  everlasting  to  us  women 

faint  and  fasting,  — 
At  last  they  're  moving,  marching,  marching 

proudly  up  the  hill. 

We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all 

along  the  lines  advancing,  — 
Now  the  front  rank  fires  a  volley, —  they 

have  thrown  away  their  shot; 
For  behind  their  earthwork  lying,  all  the 

balls  above  them  Hying, 
Our  people  need  not  hurry;  so  they  wait 

and  answer  not. 

Then  the  Corporal,  our  old  cripple  (he  would 

swear  sometimes  and  tipple),  — 
He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the 

old  French  war)  before,  — 
Calls  out  in  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if  they 

all  were  hearing,  — 
And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on  the 

dusty  belfry  floor  :  — 

"  Oh  !  fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn  King 

George's  shillin's, 
But  ye  '11  waste  a  ton  of  powder  afore  a 

1  rebel'  falls; 
You  may  bang  the  dirt  and  welcome,  they  're 

as  safe  as  Dan'l  Malcolm 
Ten  foot  beneath  the  gravestone  that  you  've 

splintered  with  your  balls  !  " 

In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and 

trepidation 
Of  the  dread  approaching  moment,  we  are 

well-nigh  breathless  all; 
Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on  the 

rickety  belfry  railing, 
We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like  the 

waves  against  a  wall. 


At  length  the  men  have  started,  with  a  Just  a  glimpse  (the  air  is  clearer),  they  are 
cheer  (it  seemed  faint-hearted),  nearer,  —  nearer,  — nearer, 

In  their  scarlet  regimentals,  with  their  |  When  a  flash  —  a  curling  smoke-wreath  — 

knapsacks  on  their  backs,  I  then  a  crash  —  the  steeple  shakes  — 


226 


BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


The  deadly  truce  is  ended;  the  tempest's 

shroud  is  rended; 
Like   a  morning  mist   it  gathered,  like  a 

thundercloud  it  breaks  ! 

Oh  the  sight  our  eyes  discover  as  the  blue- 
black  smoke  blows  over  ! 

The  red-coats  stretched  in  windrows  as  a 
mower  rakes  his  hay; 

Here  a  scarlet  heap  is  lying,  there  a  head 
long  crowd  is  flying 

Like  a  billow  that  has  broken  and  is  shiv 
ered  into  spray. 

Then   we  cried,  "  The  troops  are  routed  ! 

they  are  beat  —  it  can't  be  doubted  ! 
God  be  thanked,  the  fight  is  over  !  "  —  Ah  ! 

the  grim  old  soldier's  smile  ! 
"  Tell  us,  tell  us  why  you  look  so  ?  "  (we 

could  hardly  speak,  we  shook  so),  — 
"  Are    they   beaten  ?      Are  they   beaten  ? 

ARE    they     beaten  ?"_« Wait    a 

while." 

Oh  the  trembling  and  the  terror  !  for  too 

soon  we  saw  our  error: 
They   are  baffled,  not  defeated;  we  have 

driven  them  back  in  vain ; 
And  the  columns  that  were  scattered,  round 

the  colors  that  were  tattered, 
Toward  the  sullen,  silent  fortress  turn  their 

belted  breasts  again. 

All  at  once,  as  we  are  gazing,  lo  the  roofs 

of  Charlestown  blazing  ! 
They  have  fired  the  harmless  village ;  in  an 

hour  it  will  be  down  ! 
The  Lord  in  heaven  confound  them,  rain 

his  fire  and  brimstone  round  them,  — 
The    robbing,   murdering    red-coats,   that 

would  burn  a  peaceful  town  ! 

They  are  marching,  stern  and  solemn;  we 

can  see  each  massive  column 
As  they  near  the  naked  earth-mound  with 

the  slanting  walls  so  steep. 
Have  our  soldiers  got  faint-hearted,  and  in 

noiseless  haste  departed? 
Are  they  panic-struck  and  helpless  ?     Are 

they  palsied  or  asleep  ? 

Now  !    the   walls   they  're  almost  under  ! 

scarce  a  rod  the  foes  asunder  ! 
Not   a   firelock   flashed  against  them  !  up 

the  earthwork  they  will  swarm  ! 


But  the  words  have  scarce  been  spoken, 
when  the  ominous  calm  is  broken, 

And  a  bellowing  crash  has  emptied  all  the 
vengeance  of  the  storm  ! 

So  again,  with  murderous  slaughter,  pelted 

backwards  to  the  water, 
Fly     Pigot's     running      heroes     and     the 

frightened  braves  of  Howe; 
And  we  shout,  "  At  last  they  're  done  for, 

it 's  their  barges  they  have  run  for: 
They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten;  and  the 

battle  's  over  now  !  " 

And   we  looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on 

the  rough  old  soldier's  features, 
Our  lips  afraid  to  question,  but  he  knew 

what  we  would  ask  : 
" Not  sure,"  he  said;    " keep  quiet,  —  once 

more,  I  guess,  they  '11  try  it  — 
Here  's  damnation  to  the  cut-throats  !  "  — 

then  he  handed  me  his  flask, 

Saying,  "  Gal,  you  're  looking  shaky;  have 

a  drop  of  old  Jamaiky ; 
I  'm  afeard  there  '11  be  more  trouble  afore 

the  job  is  done ; " 
So  I  took  one  scorching  swallow;  dreadful 

faint  I  felt  and  hollow, 
Standing  there  from  early  morning  when 

the  firing  was  begun. 

All  through  those  hours  of  trial  I  had 
watched  a  calm  clock  dial, 

As  the  hands  kept  creeping,  creeping,  — 
they  were  creeping  round  to  four, 

When  the  old  man  said,  "  They  're  forming 
with  their  bagonets  fixed  for  storm 
ing: 

It 's  the  death-grip  that 's  a-coming,  —  they 
will  try  the  works  once  more." 

With  brazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames 

behind  them  glaring, 
The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close  array 

they  come; 
Still  onward,  upward  toiling,  like  a  dragon's 

fold  uncoiling,  — 
Like   the  rattlesnake's   shrill  warning  the 

reverberating  drum  ! 

Over  heaps  all  torn  and  gory  —  shall  I  tell 

the  fearful  story, 
How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork,  as 

a  sea  breaks  over  a  deck ; 


AT   THE    "ATLANTIC"    DINNER 


How,  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our  worn- 
out  men  retreated, 

With  their  powder-horns  all  emptied,  like 
the  swimmers  from  a  wreck  ? 

It  has  all  been  told  and  painted;  as  forme, 

they  say  I  fainted, 
And    the    wooden  -  legged    old    Corporal 

stumped  with  me  down  the  stair: 
When  I  woke  from  dreams  affrighted  the 

evening  lamps  were  lighted,  — 
On  the  floor  a  youth  was  lying;  his  bleeding 

breast  was  bare. 

And  I  heard  through  all  the  flurry,  "  Send 

for  WARREN  !  hurry  !  hurry  ! 
Tell   him   here 's   a  soldier   bleeding,  and 

he  '11  come  and  dress  his  wound  !  " 
Ah,  we  knew  not  till  the  morrow  told  its 

tale  of  death  and  sorrow, 
How  the  starlight  found  him  stiffened  on 

the  dark  and  bloody  ground. 

Who  the  youth  was,  what  his  name  was, 
where  the  place  from  which  he  came 


Who  had  brought  him  from  the  battle,  and 

had  left  him  at  our  door, 
He  could  not  speak  to  tell  us ;  but  't  was 

one  of  our  brave  fellows, 
As  the  homespun  plainly  showed  us  which 

the  dying  soldier  wore. 

For  they  all  thought  he  was  dying,  as  they 

gathered  round  him  crying,  — 
And  they  said,  "  Oh,  how  they  '11  miss  him  !  " 

and,  "  What  will  his  mother  do  ?  " 
Then,  his  eyelids  just  unclosing  like  a  child's 

that  has  been  dozing, 
He  faintly  murmured,    "  Mother  !  "  —  and 

—  I  saw  his  eyes  were  blue. 

"  Why,  grandma,  how    you  're  winking  !  " 

Ah,  my  child,  it  sets  me  thinking 
Of  a  story   not   like    this  one.     Well,    he 

somehow  lived  along; 
So  we  came    to    know    each    other,  and    I 

nursed  him  like  a  —  mother, 
Till  at  last  he   stood  before   me,  tall,  and 

rosy-cheeked,  and  strong. 

And  we  sometimes  walked  together  in  the 
pleasant  summer  weather,  — 

"Please  to  tell  us  what  his  name  was?'' 
Just  your  own,  my  little  dear,  — 


There  's  his  picture  Copley  painted:  we  be 
came  so  well  acquainted, 

That  —  in  short,  that's  why  I'm  grandma, 
and  you  children  all  are  here  ! 

AT  THE  "ATLANTIC"  DINNER 

DECEMBER    15,    1874 

I  SUPPOSE  it 's  myself  that  you  're  making 
allusion  to 

And  bringing  the  sense  of  dismay  and  con 
fusion  to. 

Of  course  some  must  speak,  —  they  arc  al 
ways  selected  to, 

But  pray  what 's  the  reason  that  I  am  ex 
pected  to  ? 

I  'in  not  fond  of  wasting  my  breath  as  those 
fellows  do 

That  want  to  be  blowing  forever  as  bellows 
do; 

Their  legs  are  uneasy,  but  why  will  you  jog 
any 

That  long  to  stay  quiet  beneath  the  mahog- 


Why,  why  call  me  up  with  your  battery  of 

flatteries  ? 
You  say  "  He  writes  poetry,"  —  that 's  what 

the  matter  is  ! 
"  It  costs   him  no  trouble  —  a  pen  full  of 

ink  or  two 
And  the  poem  is  done    in   the  time    of   a 

wink  or  two; 
As  for  thoughts  —  never  mind  —  take  the 

ones  that  lie  uppermost, 
And  the  rhymes  used  by  Milton  and  Byron 

and  Tnpper  most; 

The  lines  come  so  easy  !  at  one  end  he  jin 
gles  'em, 
At  the  other  with  capital  letters  he  shingles 

'em,  — 
Why,   the   thing  writes  itself,   and  before 

he  's  half  done  with  it 
He  hates  to  stop  writing,  he  has  such  good 

fun  with  it  !  " 

Ah,  that  is  the  way  in  which  simple  ones 

go  about 
1   And  draw  a  fine    picture   of   things    they 

don't  know  about  ! 

I   We  all  know  a  kitten,  but  come  to  a  cata 
mount 

The  beast  is  a  stranger  when  grown  up  to 
that  amount, 


228 


BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


(A  stranger  we  rather  prefer  should  n't 
visit  us, 

A  fells  whose  advent  is  far  from  felici 
tous.) 

The  boy  who  can  boast  that  his  trap  has 
just  got  a  mouse 

Must  n't  draw  it  and  write  underneath 
"  hippopotamus;  " 

Or  say  unveraciously,  "This  is  an  ele 
phant,"  - 

Don't  think,  let  me  beg,  these  examples 
irrelevant,  — 

What  they  mean  is  just  this  —  that  a  thing 
to  be  painted  well 

Should  always  be  something  with  which 
we  're  acquainted  well. 

You  call  on  your  victim  for  "  things  he  has 
plenty  of,  — 

Those  copies  of  verses  no  doubt  at  least 
twenty  of; 

His  desk  is  crammed  full,  for  he  always 
keeps  writing  'em 

And  reading  to  friends  as  his  way  of  de 
lighting  'em  ! " 

I  tell  you  this  writing  of  verses  means  busi 
ness,  — 

It  makes  the  brain  whirl  in  a  vortex  of 
dizziness: 

You  think  they  are  scrawled  in  the  languor 
of  laziness  — 

I  tell  you  they  're  squeezed  by  a  spasm  of 
craziness, 

A  fit  half  as  bad  as  the  staggering  vertigos 

That  seize  a  poor  fellow  and  down  in  the 
dirt  he  goes  ! 

And  therefore  it   chimes  with  the  word's 

etymology 
That  the  sons  of  Apollo  are  great  on  apol- 

°sy». . 

For  the  writing  of  verse  is  a  struggle  mys 
terious 

And  the  gayest  of  rhymes  is  a  matter  that 's 
serious. 

For  myself,  I  'm  relied  on  by  friends  in  ex 
tremities, 

And  I  don't  mind  so  much  if  a  comfort  to 
them  it  is; 

'Tis  a  pleasure  to  please,  and  the  straw 
that  can  tickle  us 

Is  a  source  of  enjoyment  though  slightly 
ridiculous. 

I  am  up  for  a  —  something  —  and  since 
I  've  begun  with  it, 


I  must  give  you  a  toast  now  before  I  have 
done  with  it. 

Let  me  pump  at  my  wits  as  they  pumped 
the  Cochituate 

That  moistened  —  it  may  be  —  the  very 
last  bit  you  ate: 

Success  to  our  publishers,  authors  and 
editors, 

To  our  debtors  good  luck,  —  pleasant 
dreams  to  our  creditors; 

May  the  monthly  grow  yearly,  till  all  we 
are  groping  for 

Has  reached  the  fulfilment  we  're  all  of  us 
hoping  for ; 

Till  the  bore  through  the  tunnel  —  it  makes 
me  let  off  a  sigh 

To  think  it  may  possibly  ruin  my  pro 
phecy  - 

Has  been  punned  on  so  often  't  will  never 
provoke  again 

One  mild  adolescent  to  make  the  old  joke 
again ; 

Till  abstinent,  all-go-to-meeting  society 

Has  forgotten  the  sense  of  the  word  ine 
briety; 

Till  the  work  that  poor  Hannah  and  Bridget 
and  Phillis  do 

The  humanized,  civilized  female  gorillas  do; 

Till  the  roughs,  as  we  call  them,  grown 
loving  and  dutiful, 

Shall  worship  the  true  and  the  pure  and 
the  beautiful, 

And,  preying  no  longer  as  tiger  and  vulture 
do, 

All  read  the  "  Atlantic  "  as  persons  of  cul 
ture  do  ! 

"LUCY" 

FOR     HER   GOLDEN     WEDDING,     OCTOBER 
1 8,   1375 

[The  subject  of  this  poem  was  a  familiar  fig 
ure  in  the  household  of  Dr.  Holmes's  father,  and 
was  married  while  living1  there  to  a  farmer.] 

"  LUCY."  —  The  old  familiar  name 

Is  now,  as  always,  pleasant, 
Its  liquid  melody  the  same 

Alike  in  past  or  present; 
Let  others  call  you  what  they  will, 

I  know  you  '11  let  me  use  it; 
To  me  your  name  is  Lucy  still, 

I  cannot  bear  to  lose  it. 

What  visions  of  the  past  return 
With  Lucy's  image  blended  ! 


A   MEMORIAL   TRIBUTE 


220 


What  memories  from  the  silent  urn 

Of  gentle  lives  long-  ended  ! 
What  dreams  of  childhood's  fleeting  morn, 

What  starry  aspirations, 
That  filled  the  misty  days  unborn 

With  fancy's  coruscations  ! 

Ah,  Lucy,  life  has  swiftly  sped 

From  April  to  November; 
The  summer  blossoms  all  are  shed 

That  you  and  I  remember; 
But  while  the  vanished  years  we  share 

With  mingling  recollections, 
How  all  their  shadowy  features  wear 

The  hue  of  old  affections  ! 

Love  called  you.     He  who  stole  your  heart 

Of  sunshine  half  bereft  us; 
Our  household's  garland  fell  apart 

The  morning  that  you  left  us; 
The  tears  of  tender  girlhood  streamed 

Through  sorrow's  opening  sluices; 
Less  sweet  our  garden's  roses  seemed. 

Less  blue  its  flower-de-luces. 

That  old  regret  is  turned  to  smiles, 

That  parting  sigh  to  greeting; 
I  send  my  heart-throb  fifty  miles, 

Through  every  line  't  is  beating; 
God  grant  you  many  and  happy  years, 

Till  when  the  last  has  crowned  you 
The  dawn  of  endless  day  appears, 

And  heaven  is  shining  round  you  ! 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  INAUGURATION  OF  THE 
STATUE  OF  GOVERNOR  ANDREW, 
HIXGHAM,  OCTOBER  7,  1875 

BEHOLD  the  shape  our  eyes  have  known  ! 
It  lives  once  more  in  changeless  stone; 
So  looked  in  mortal  face  and  form 
Our  guide  through  peril's  deadly  storm. 

But  hushed  the  beating  heart  we  knew, 
That  heart  so  tender,  brave,  and  true, 
Firm  as  the  rooted  mountain  rock, 
Pure  as  the  quarry's  whitest  block  ! 

Not  his  beneath  the  blood-red  star 
To  win  the  soldier's  envied  scar; 
Unarmed  he  battled  for  the  right, 
In  Dutv's  never-endinrr  furht. 


Unconquered  will,  unslumbering  eye, 
Faith  such  as  bids  the  martyr  die, 
The  prophet's  glance,  the  master's  hand 
To  mould  the  work  his  foresight  planned, 

These    were    his  gifts;  what    Heaven  had 

lent 

For  justice,  mercy,  truth,  he  spent, 
First  to  avenge  the  traitorous  blow, 
And  first  to  lift  the  vanquished  foe. 

Lo,  thus  he  stood;  in  danger's  strait 
The  pilot  of  the  Pilgrim  State  ! 
Too  large  his  fame  for  her  alone,  — 
A  nation  claims  him  as  her  own  ! 


A  MEMORIAL  TRIBUTE 

READ  AT  THE  MEETING  HELD  AT  MUSIC 
HALL,  FEl'.RL'ARV  8,  1876,  IN  MEMORY 
OF  DR.  SAML'KL  G.  HOWE 


LEADER  of  armies,  Israel's  God, 

Thy  soldier's  fight  is  won  ! 
Master,  whose  lowly  path  he  trod, 

Thy  servant's  work  is  done  ! 

No  voice  is  heard  from  Sinai's  steep 
Our  wandering  feet  to  guide; 

From  Iloreb's  rock  no  waters  leap; 
No  Jordan's  waves  divide; 

No  prophet  cleaves  our  western  sky 

On  wheels  of  whirling  fire; 
No  shepherds  hear  the  song  on  high 

Of  heaven's  angelic  choir: 

Yet  here  as  to  the  patriarch's  tent 

God's  angel  comes  a  guest; 
lie  comes  on  heaven's  high  errand  sent, 

In  earth's  poor  raiment  clrest. 

We  see  no  halo  round  his  brow 

Till  love  its  own  recalls, 
And,  like  a  leaf  that  quits  the  bough, 

The  mortal  vesture  falls. 

In  autumn's  chill  declining  day, 

Ere  winter's  killing  frost, 
The  message  came;  so  passed  away 

The  friend  our  earth  has  lost. 


230 


BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE  AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Still,  Father,  in  thy  love  we  trust; 

Forgive  us  if  we  mourn 
The  saddening  hour  that  laid  in  dust 

His  robe  of  flesh  outworn. 


II 

How  long  the  wreck-strewn  journey  seems 

To  reach  the  far-off  past 
That  woke  his  youth  from  peaceful  dreams 

With  Freedom's  trumpet-blast ! 

Along  her  classic  hillsides  rung 

The  Paynim's  battle-cry, 
And  like  a  red-cross  knight  he  sprung 

For  her  to  live  or  die. 

No  trustier  service  claimed  the  wreath 

For  Sparta's  bravest  son; 
No  truer  soldier  sleeps  beneath 

The  mound  of  Marathon; 

Yet  not  for  him  the  warrior's  grave 

In  front  of  angry  foes; 
To  lift,  to  shield,  to  help,  to  save, 

The  holier  task  he  chose. 

He  touched  the  eyelids  of  the  blind, 

And  lo  !  the  veil  withdrawn, 
As  o'er  the  midnight  of  the  mind 

He  led  the  light  of  dawn. 

He  asked  not  whence  the  fountains  roll 

No  traveller's  foot  has  found, 
But  mapped  the  desert  of  the  soul 

Untracked  by  sight  or  sound. 

What   prayers  have  reached  the  sapphire 
throne, 

By  silent  fingers  spelt, 
For  him  who  first  through  depths  unknown 

His  doubtful  pathway  felt, 

Who  sought  the  slumbering  sense  that  lay 

Close  shut  with  bolt  and  bar, 
And  showed  awakening  thought  the  ray 

Of  reason's  morning  star  ! 

Where'er  he  moved,  his  shadowy  form 
The  sightless  orbs  would  seek, 

And  smiles  of  welcome  light  and  warm 
The  lips  that  could  not  speak. 

No  labored  line,  no  sculptor's  art, 
Such  hallowed  memory  needs; 


His  tablet  is  the  human  heart, 
His  record  loving  deeds. 

Ill 

The  rest  that  earth  denied  is  thine,  — 

Ah,  is  it  rest  ?  we  ask, 
Or,  traced  by  knowledge  more  divine, 

Some  larger,  nobler  task  ? 

Had  but  those  boundless  fields  of  blue 
One  darkened  sphere  like  this; 

But  what  has  heaven  for  thee  to  do 
In  realms  of  perfect  bliss  ? 

No  cloud  to  lift,  no  mind  to  clear, 
No  rugged  path  to  smooth, 

No  struggling  soul  to  help  and  cheer, 
No  mortal  grief  to  soothe  ! 

Enough ;  is  there  a  world  of  love, 

No  more  we  ask  to  know; 
The  hand  will  guide  thy  ways  above 

That  shaped  thy  task  below. 


JOSEPH    WARREN,    M.  D. 

1875 

TRAINED  in  the  holy  art  whose  lifted  shield 
Wards  off  the  darts  a  never-slumbering 

foe, 
By  hearth  and  wayside  lurking,  waits  to 

throw, 

Oppression  taught  his  helpful  arm  to  wield 
The  slayer's  weapon:  on  the  murderous  field 
The  fiery  bolt  he  challenged  laid  him  low, 
Seeking  its  noblest  victim.     Even  so 
The  charter  of  a  nation  must  be  sealed! 
The    healer's    brow   the    hero's    honors 

crowned, 

From  lowliest  duty  called  to  loftiest  deed. 
Living,  the  oak-leaf  wreath  his  temples 

bound; 

Dying,  the  conqueror's  laurel  was  his  meed, 
Last  on  the  broken  ramparts'  turf  to  bleed 
Where  Freedom's  victory  in  defeat  was 
found. 


OLD    CAMBRIDGE 

JULY    3,    1875 

[Upon  the  occasion  of  the  Centennial  cele 
bration   of    Washington   taking-   command   of 


OLD    CAMBRIDGE 


231 


the  American  army.     It  was  on  this  occasion 

that    Lowell    read    his    ode,    Under  the    Old 

Elm.] 

AND  can  it  be  you  've  found  a  place 

Within  this  consecrated  space, 

That  makes  so  fine  a  show, 
For  one  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  race  ? 

And  is  it  really  so  ? 
Who  wants  an  old  receipted  bill  ? 
Who  fishes  in  the  Frog-pond  still  ? 
Who  digs  last  year's  potato  hill  ?  — 

That  's  what  he  'd  like  to  know  ! 

And  were  it  any  spot  on  earth 

Save  this  dear  home  that  gave  him  birth 

Some  scores  of  years  ago, 
He  had  not  come  to  spoil  your  mirth 

And  chill  your  festive  glow; 
But  round  his  baby-nest  he  strays, 
With  tearful  eye  the  scene  surveys, 
His  heart  unchanged  by  changing  days,  — 

That 's  what  he  'd  have  you  know. 

Can  you  whose  eyes  not  yet  are  dim 
Live  o'er  the  buried  past  witli  him, 

And  see  the  roses  blow 
When  white-haired  men  were  Joe  and  Jim 

L^ntouched  by  winter's  snow  ? 
Or  roll  the  years  back  one  by  one 
As  Judah's  monarch  backed  the  sun, 
And  see  the  century  just  begun?  — 

That 's  what  he  'd  like  to  know  ! 

I  come,  but  as  the  swallow  dips, 
Just  touching  with  her  feather-tips 

The  shining  wave  below, 
To  sit  with  pleasure-murmuring  lips 

And  listen  to  the  flow 
Of  Ehnwood's  sparkling  Hippocrene, 
To  tread  once  more  my  native  green, 
To  sigh  unheard,  to  smile  unseen,  — 

That 's  what  1  'd  have  you  know. 

But  since  the  common  lot  I  've  shared 
(We  all  are  sitting  "  unprepared," 

Like  culprits  in  a  row, 

Whose  heads  are  down,   whose  necks  are 
bared 

To  wait  the  headsman's  blow), 
I  'd  like  to  shift  my  task  to  you, 
By  asking  just  a  thing  or  two 
About  the  good  old  times  I  knew,  — 

Here  's  what  I  want  to  know: 


The  yellow  meetin'  house  —  can  you  tell 
Just  where  it  stood  before  it  fell 

Prey  of  the  vandal  foe,  — 
Our  dear  old  temple,  loved  so  well, 

By  ruthless  hands  laid  low  ? 
Where,  tell  me,  was  the  Deacon's  pew  ? 
Whose  hair  was  braided  in  a  queue  ? 
(For  there  were  pig-tails  not  a  few,)  — 

That's  what  I  'd  like  to  know. 

The  bell  — can  you  recall  its  clang  ? 
And  how  the  seats  would  slam  and  bang  ? 

The  voices  high  and  low  ? 
The  basso's  trump  before  he  sang  ? 

The  viol  and  its  bow  ? 
Where  was  it  old  Judge  Winthrop  sat  ? 
Who  wore  the  last  three-cornered  hat  ? 
Was  Israel  Porter  lean  or  fat  ?  — 

That 's  what  1  'd  like  to  know. 

Tell  where  the  market  used  to  be 
That  stood  beside  the  murdered  tree  ? 

Whose  dog  to  church  would  go  ? 
Old  Marcus  Reemie,  who  was  he  ? 

Who  were  the  brothers  Snow  ? 
Does  not  your  memory  slightly  fail 
About  that  great  September  gale  ?  — 
Whereof  one  told  a  moving  talc. 

As  Cambridge  boys  should  know. 

When  Cambridge  was  a  simple  town, 
Say  just  when  Deacon  William  Brown 

(Last  door  in  yonder  row), 
For  honest  silver  counted  down, 

His  groceries  would  bestow  ?  — 
For  those  were  days  when  money  meant 
Something  that  jingled  as  you  went, — 
No  hybrid  like  the  nickel  cent, 

I  'd  have  you  all  to  know, 

But  quarter,  ninepence,  pistareen, 
And  fourpence  hapennies  in  between, 

All  metal  fit  to  show, 
Instead  of  rags  in  stagnant  green, 

The  scum  of  debts  we  owe; 
How  sad  to  think  such  stuff  should  be 
Our  Wendell's  cure-all  recipe,  — 
Not  Wendell  H.,  but  Wendell  P.,  - 

The  one  you  all  must  know  ! 

I  question  —  but  you  answer  not  — 
Dear  me  !  and  have  I  quite  forgot 
How  fivescore  years  ago, 


BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Just  on  this  very  blessed  spot, 

The  summer  leaves  below, 
Before  his  homespun  ranks  arrayed 
In  green  New  England's  elm-bough  shade 
The  great  Virginian  drew  the  blade 

King  George  full  soon  should  know  ! 

O  George  the  Third  !  you  found  it  true 
Our  George  was  more  than  double  you, 

For  nature  made  him  so. 
Not  much  an  empire's  crown  can  do 

If  brains  are  scant  and  slow,  — 
Ah,  not  like  that  his  laurel  crown 
Whose  presence  gilded  with  renown 
Our  brave  old  Academic  town, 

As  all  her  children  know  ! 

So  here  we  meet  with  loud  acclaim 
To  tell  mankind  that  here  he  came, 

With  hearts  that  throb  and  glow; 
Ours  is  a  portion  of  his  fame 

Our  trumpets  needs  must  blow  ! 
On  yonder  hill  the  Lion  fell, 
But  here  was  chipped  the  eagle's  shell,  — 
That  little  hatchet  did  it  well, 

As  all  the  world  shall  know  ! 


WELCOME  TO  THE  NATIONS 

PHILADELPHIA,  JULY   4,  1876 

BRIGHT  on  the  banners  of  lily  and  rose 
Lo!  the  last  sun  of  our  century  sets  ! 
Wreathe  the  black  cannon  that  scowled  on 

our  foes, 

All  but  her  friendships  the  nation  for 
gets  ! 
All  but  her  friends  and  their  welcome 

forgets  ! 
These  are  around  her;  but  where  are  her 

foes? 

Lo,  while  the  sun  of  her  century  sets, 
Peace  with  her  garlands  of  lily  and  rose  ! 

Welcome  !  a  shout  like  the  war  trumpet's 

swell 
Wakes   the   wild   echoes    that    slumber 

around  ! 

Welcome!  it  quivers  from  Liberty's  bell; 
Welcome  !  the  walls  of  her  temple  re 
sound  ! 

Hark!  the  gray  walls  of  her  temple  re 
sound  ! 
Fade  the  far  voices  o'er  hillside  and  dell ; 


Welcome  !     still     whisper    the     echoes 

around ; 
Welcome  !  still  trembles  on  Liberty's  bell  ! 

Thrones   of  the   continent  !     isles   of  the 

sea  ! 

Yours  are  the  garlands  of  peace  we  en 
twine  ; 
Welcome,  once  more,  to  the  land  of  the 

free, 
Shadowed   alike   by  the   palm  and   the 

pine ; 
Softly  they  murmur,  the  palm  and  the 

pine, 
"  Hushed  is  our  strife,  in  the  land  of  the 

free  ;  " 

Over  your  children  their  branches  en 
twine, 
Thrones  of  the  continents  !  isles  of  the  sea  ! 


A  FAMILIAR  LETTER 

TO   SEVERAL   CORRESPONDENTS 

YES,  write,  if  you  want  to,  there  's  nothing 

like  trying; 
Who  knows  what  a  treasure  your  casket 

may  hold  ? 
I  '11   show  you  that   rhyming  's  as  easy  as 

lying, 

If  you'  11  listen  to  me  while  the  art  I  un 
fold. 

Here's   a    book    full   of   words;    one   can 

choose  as  he  fancies, 
As  a  painter  his  tint,  as  a  workman  his 

tool; 
Just  think  !  all  the  poems   and  plays  and 

romances 

Were  drawn  out  of  this,  like  the   fish 
from  a  pool  ! 

You  can  wander  at  will  through  its  sylla 
bled  mazes, 
And  take  all  you  want,  —  not  a  copper 

they  cost,  — 
What  is  there  to  hinder  your  picking  out 

phrases 

For   an   epic    as    clever    as    "  Paradise 
Lost"? 

Don't  mind  if  the  index  of  sense  is  at  zero, 
Use  words  that  run  smoothly,  whatever 
they  mean; 


A   FAMILIAR   LETTER 


233 


Leander  and  Lilian  and  Lillibullero 

Are  much  the  same  thing  in  the  rhyming 
machine. 

There  are  words  so  delicious  their  sweet 
ness  will  smother 
That   boarding-school   flavor   of     which 

we  're  afraid ,  — 
There  is  "  lush  "  is  a  good  one,  and  "  swirl  " 

is  another,  — 

Put   both  in   one   stanza,   its  fortune  is 
made. 

With    musical    murmurs    and    rhythmical 

closes 
You  can  cheat  us  of  smiles  when  you  've 

nothing  to  tell; 
You  hand  us  a  nosegay  of  milliner's  roses, 


And    we    cry    with    delight, 
sweet  they  do  smell !  " 


Oh,    how 


Perhaps  you  will  answer  all  needful  condi 


tions 
For  winnim 


the    laurels   to  which  you 


aspire, 

By  docking  the  tails  of   the  two  preposi 
tions 

I'  the  style  o'  the  bards  you  so  greatly 
admire. 

As  for  subjects  of  verse,  they  are  only  too 

plenty 
For   ringing    the    changes    on   metrical 

chimes; 

A  maiden,  a  moonbeam,  a  lover  of  twenty 
Have  filled  that  great  basket  with  bush 
els  of  rhymes. 

Let  me  show  you  a  picture  —  't  is  far  from 

irrelevant  — 

By  a  famous  old  hand  in  the  arts  of  de 
sign; 
'T  is  only  a   photographed    sketch    of   an 

elephant,  — 

The  name  of  the  draughtsman  was  Rem 
brandt  of  Rhine. 

How  easy  !    no  troublesome   colors  to  lay 

on, 
It  can't  have  fatigued  him,  —  no,  not  in 

the  least,  — 
A  dash  here  and  there  with  a  hap-hazard 

crayon, 

And  there  stands  the  wrinkled-skinned, 
baggy-limbed  beast. 


Just  so  with  your  verse,  —  't  is  as  easy  as 

sketching,  — 
You  can  reel  off  a  song  without  knitting 

your  brow, 
As   lightly  as    Rembrandt   a   drawing   or 

etching; 
It  is  nothing  at  all,  if  you  only  know  how. 

Well;  imagine  you  've  printed  your  volume 

of  verses: 

Your  forehead  is  wreathed  with  the  gar 
land  of  fame, 

Your  poems    the  eloquent    school-boy  re 
hearses, 

Her  album  the  school-girl  presents  for 
your  name ; 

Each  morning  the  post  brings  you  auto 
graph  letters; 
You  '11    answer     them     promptly,  —  an 

hour  is  n't  much 
For  the  honor  of  sharing  a  page  with  your 

betters, 

With  magistrates,  members  of  Congress, 
and  such. 

Of  course  you  're  delighted  to  serve  the 

committees 

That  come  with  requests  from  the  coun 
try  all  round, 
You  would  grace  the  occasion  witli  poems 

and  ditties 

When  they  've  got  a  new  schooihonse, 
or  poorhouse,  or  pound. 

With  a  hymn  for  the  saints  and  a  song  for 

the  sinners, 
You  go  and  are  welcome  wherever  you 

please; 
You  're  a  privileged  guest  at  all  manner  of 

dinners, 

You  've  a  seat  on  the  platform  among 
the  grandees. 

At  length  your  mere   presence  becomes  a 

sensation, 

Your  cup  of  enjoyment  is  filled  to  its  brim 
With  the   pleasure  Horatian  of  digitmon- 

stration, 

As  the  whisper  runs  round  of   "  That  's 
he  !  "  or  «  That 's  him  !  " 

But  remember,  O  dealer  in  phrases  sono 
rous, 
So  daintily  chosen,  so  tunefully  matched, 


234 


BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Though  you   soar  with   the  wings  of   the 

cherubim  o'er  us, 

The  ovum  was  human  from  which  you 
were  hatched. 

No  will  of  your  own  with  its  puny  compul 
sion 
Can  summon  the  spirit  that  quickens  the 

lyre ; 

It  comes,  if  at  all,  like  the  Sibyl's  convul 
sion 

And  touches  the  brain  with  a  finger  of 
fire. 

So  perhaps,  after  all,  it 's  as  well  to  be 

quiet 
If  you  've   nothing  you  think  is  worth 

saying  in  prose, 

As  to  furnish  a  meal  of  their  cannibal  diet 
To  the  critics,  by  publishing,  as  you  pro 
pose. 

But  it 's  all  of  no  use,  and  I  'm  sorry  I  've 

written,  — 
I  shall  see  your  thin  volume  some  day 

on  my  shelf; 

For  the  rhyming  tarantula  surely  has  bit 
ten, 

And   music  must  cure  you,  so   pipe   it 
yourself. 

UNSATISFIED 

"  ONLY  a  housemaid  !  "     She  looked  from 

the  kitchen,  — 

Neat  was  the  kitchen  and  tidy  was  she; 
There    at   her   window   a   sempstress    sat 

stitching; 

"Were  I  a  sempstress,  how  happy  I'd 
be!" 

"  Only  a  Queen  !  "     She  looked   over   the 

waters,  — 
Fair  was  her  kingdom  and  mighty  was 

she; 
There  sat  an   Empress,  with  Queens   for 

her  daughters; 

"  Were  I   an  Empress,  how  happy  I  'd 
be!" 

Still  the  old  frailty  they  all  of  them  trip  in  ! 

Eve  in  her  daughters  is  ever  the  same ; 
Give  her  all  Eden,  she  sighs  for  a  pippin  ; 

Give    her   an   Empire,  she   pines   for  a 
name  J 


HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON 
THE  BET 

DEDICATED  BY  A  CONTRIBUTOR  TO  THE 
COLLEGIAN,  1830,  TO  THE  EDITORS 
OF  THE  HARVARD  ADVOCATE,  1876 

Unquestionably  there  is  something  a  little 
like  extravagance  in  How  the  Old  Horse  won 
the  Bet,  which  taxes  the  credulity  of  experi 
enced  horsemen.  Still  there  have  been  a  good 
many  surprises  in  the  history  of  the  turf  and 
the  trotting  course. 

The  Godolphin  Arabian  was  taken  from  ig 
noble  drudgery  to  become  the  patriarch  of  the 
English  racing  stock. 

Old  Dutchman  was  transferred  from  between 
the  shafts  of  a  cart  to  become  a  champion  of 
the  American  trotters  in  his  time. 

"  Old  Blue,"  a  famous  Boston  horse  of  the 
early  decades  of  this  century,  was  said  to  trot 
a  mile  in  less  than  three  minutes,  but  I  do  not 
find  any  exact  record  of  his  achievements. 

Those  who  have  followed  the  history  of  the 
American  trotting  horse  are  aware  of  the  won 
derful  development  of  speed  attained  in  these 
last  years.  The  lowest  time  as  yet  recorded  is 
by  Maud  S.,  in  2.0Sf . 

'T  WAS  on  the  famous  trotting-ground, 
The  betting  men  were  gathered  round 
From  far  and  near ;  the  "  cracks  "  were 

there 

Whose  deeds  the  sporting  prints  declare: 
The  swift  g.  m.,  Old  Hiram's  nag, 
The  fleet  s.  h.,  Dan  Pfeiffer's  brag, 
With  these  a  third  —  and  who  is  he 
That  stands  beside  his  fast  b.  g.  ? 
Budd  Doble,  whose  catarrhal  name 
So  fills  the  nasal  trump  of  fame. 
There  too  stood  many  a  noted  steed 
Of  Messenger  and  Morgan  breed; 
Green  horses  also,  not  a  few; 
Unknown  as  yet  what  they  could  do; 
And  all  the  hacks  that  know  so  well 
The  scourgings  of  the  Sunday  swell. 

Blue  are  the  skies  of  opening  day; 
The  bordering  turf  is  green  with  May; 
The  sunshine's  golden  gleam  is  thrown 
On  sorrel,  chestnut,  bay,  and  roan; 
The  horses  paw  and  prance  and  neigh, 
Fillies  and  colts  like  kittens  play, 
And  dance  and  toss  their  rippled  manes 
Shining  and  soft  as  silken  skeins; 
Wagons  and  gigs  are  ranged  about, 


HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON  THE  BET 


235 


And  fashion  flaunts  her  gay  turn-out; 
Here      stands  —  each      youthful      Jehu's 

dream  — 

The  jointed  tandem,  ticklish  team  ! 
And  there  in  ampler  breadth  expand 
The  splendors  of  the  four-in-hand; 
On  faultless  ties  and  glossy  tiles 
The  lovely  bonnets  beam  their  smiles; 
(The  style  's  the  man,  so  books  avow; 
The  style's  the  woman,  anyhow); 
From  flounces  frothed  with  creamy  lace 
Peeps  out  the  pug-dog's  smutty  face, 
Or  spaniel  rolls  his  liquid  eye, 
Or  stares  the  wiry  pet  of  Skye,  — 

0  woman,  in  your  hours  of  ease 
So  shy  with  us,  so  free  with  these  ! 

"  Come  on  !     I  '11  bet  vou  two  to  one 

1  '11    make     him    do    'it  !  "      "  Will     you  ? 

Done  !  " 

What  was  it  who  was  bound  to  do  ? 
I  did  not  hear  and  can't  tell  you,  — 
Pray  listen  till  my  story  's  through. 
Scarce  noticed,  back  behind  the  rest, 
By  cart  and  wagon  rudely  prest, 
The  parson's  lean  and  bony  bay 
Stood  harnessed  in  his  one-horse  shay  — 
Lent  to  his  sexton  for  the  day; 
(A  funeral  —  so  the  sexton  said; 
His  mother's  uncle's  wife  was  dead.) 

Like  Lazarus  bid  to  Dives'  feast, 
So  looked  the  poor  forlorn  old  beast; 
His  coat  was  rough,  his  tail  was  bare, 
The  gray  was  sprinkled  in  his  hair; 
Sportsmen  and  jockeys  knew  him  not, 
And  yet  they  say  he  once  could  trot 
Among  the  fleetest  of  the  town, 
Till    something     cracked     and    broke    him 

down,  — 

The  steed's,  the  statesman's,  common  lot  ! 
"  And  are  we  then  so  soon  forgot  V  " 
Ah  me  !     I  doubt  if  one  of  you 
Has  ever  heard  the  name  "  Old  Blue," 
Whose  fame  through  all  this  region  rung 
In  those  old  days  when  I  was  young  ! 

"  Bring  forth  the  horse  ! "  Alas  !  he 
showed 

Xot  like  the  one  Mazeppa  rode; 

Scant-maned,  sharp-backed,  and  shaky- 
kneed, 

The  wreck  of  what  was  once  a  steed, 


Lips  thin,  eyes  hollow,  stiff  in  joints; 
Yet  not  without  his  knowing  points. 
The  sexton  laughing  in  his  sleeve, 
As  if  't  were  all  a  make-believe, 
Led  forth  the  horse,  and  as  he  laughed 
Unhitched  the  breeching  from  a  shaft, 
Unclasped  the  rusty  belt  beneath, 
Drew  forth  the  snaffle  from  his  teeth, 
Slipped  off  his  head-stall,  set  him  free 
From  strap  and  rein,  —  a  sight  to  see  ! 

So  worn,  so  lean  in  every  limb, 
It  can't  be  they  are  saddling  him  ! 
It  is  !  his  back  the  pig-skin  strides 
And  flaps  his  lank,  rheumatic  sides; 
With  look  of  mingled  scorn  and  mirth 
They  buckle  round  the  saddle-girth; 
With  horsy  wink  and  saucy  toss 
A  youngster  throws  his  leg  across, 
And  so,  his  rider  on  his  back, 
They  lead  him,  limping,  to  the  track, 
Far  up  behind  the  starting-point, 
To  limber  out  each  stiffened  joint. 

As  through  the  jeering  crowd  he  past, 
One  pitying  look  Old  Hiram  cast; 
'•  Go  it,  ye  cripple,  while  ye  can  !  " 
Cried  out  unsentimental  Dan; 
"  A  Fast-Day  dinner  for  the  crows  !  " 
Bndd  Doble's  scoffing  shout  arose. 

Slowly,  as  when  the  walking-beam 
First  feels  the  gathering  head  of  steam, 
With     warning     cough     and    threatening 

wheeze 

The  stiff  old  charger  crooks  his  knees; 
At  first  with  cautious  step  sedate, 
As  if  he  dragged  a  coach  of  state; 
He  's  not  a  colt;  he  knows  full  well 
That  time  is  weight  and  sure  to  tell; 
X<>  horse  so  sturdy  but  he  fears 
The  handicap  of  twenty  years. 

As  through  the  throng  on  either  hand 
The  old  horse  nears  the  judges'  stand. 
Beneath  his  jockey's  feather-weight 
He  warms  a  little  to  his  gait, 
And  now  and  then  a  step  is  tried 
That  hints  of  something  like  a  stride. 

"  Go  !  "  —  Through  his    ear   the    summons 

stung 

As  if  a  battle-trump  had  rung; 
The  slumbering  instincts  lono-  unstirred 


236 


BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Start  at  the  old  familiar  word; 

It  thrills  like  flame  through  every  limb,  — 

What  mean  his  twenty  years  to  him  ? 

The  savage  blow  his  rider  dealt 

Fell  on  his  hollow  flanks  unfelt; 

The  spur  that  pricked  his  staring  hide 

Unheeded  tore  his  bleeding  side; 

Alike  to  him  are  spur  and  rein,  — 

He  steps  a  five-year-old  again  ! 

Before  the  quarter  pole  was  past, 

Old  Hiram  said,  "  He  's  going  fast." 

Long  ere  the  quarter  was  a  half, 

The  chuckling  crowd  had  ceased  to  laugh; 

Tighter  his  frightened  jockey  clung 

As  in  a  mighty  stride  he  swung, 

The  gravel  flying  in  his  track, 

His  neck  stretched  out,  his  ears  laid  back, 

His  tail  extended  all  the  while 

Behind  him  like  a  rat-tail  file  ! 

Off  went  a  shoe,  —  away  it  spun, 

Shot  like  a  bullet  from  a  gun ; 

The  quaking  jockey  shapes  a  prayer 

From  scraps  of  oaths  he  used  to  swear; 

He  drops  his  whip,  he  drops  his  rein, 

He  clutches  fiercely  for  a  mane; 

He  '11  lose  his  hold  —  he  sways  and  reels  — 

He  '11  slide  beneath  those  trampling  heels  ! 

The  knees  of  many  a  horseman  quake, 

The  flowers  on  many  a  bonnet  shake, 

And  shouts  arise  from  left  and  right, 

"  Stick   on  !  Stick   on  !  "     "  Hould  tight  ! 

Hould  tight  ! " 

"  Cling  round  his  neck  and  don't  let  go  — 
That    pace    can't   hold  —  there  !    steady  ! 

whoa  ! " 

But  like  the  sable  steed  that  bore 
The  spectral  lover  of  Lenore, 
His  nostrils  snorting  foam  and  fire, 
No  stretch  his  bony  limbs  can  tire; 
And  now  the  stand  he  rushes  by, 
And    "  Stop    him  !  —  stop   him  !  "   is    the 

cry. 

Stand  back  !  he  's  only  just  begun  — 
He  's  having  out  three  heats  in  one  ! 

"  Don't   rush  in  front  !  he  '11    smash  your 

brains; 

But  follow  up  and  grab  the  reins  ! " 
Old  Hiram  spoke.     Dan  Pfeiffer  heard, 
And  sprang  impatient  at  the  word; 
Budd  Doble  started  on  his  bay, 
Old  Hiram  followed  on  his  gray, 
And  off  they  spring,  and  round  they  go, 


The  fast  ones  doing  "  all  they  know." 
Look  !  twice  they  follow  at  his  heels, 
As  round  the  circling  course  he  wheels, 
And  whirls  with  him  that  clinging  boy 
Like  Hector  round  the  walls  of  Troy ; 
Still  on,  and  on,  the  third  time  round  ! 
They  're  tailing  off  !  they  're  losing  ground  ! 
Budd  Doble's  nag  begins  to  fail  ! 
Dan  Pfeiffer's  sorrel  whisks  his  tail  ! 
And  see  !  in  spite  of  whip  and  shout, 
Old  Hiram's  mare  is  giving  out  ! 
Now  for  the  finish  !  at  the  turn, 
The  old  horse  —  all  the  rest  astern  — 
Comes  swinging  in,  with  easy  trot; 
By  Jove  !  he  's  distanced  all  the  lot  ! 

That  trot  no  mortal  could  explain; 

Some  said,  "  Old  Dutchman  come  again  !  " 

Some  took  his  time,  —  at  least  they  tried, 

But  what  it  was  could  none  decide; 

One  said  he  could  n't  understand 

What  happened  to  his  second  hand; 

One  said  2.10;  that  could  n't  be  — 

More  like  two  twenty-two  or  three; 

Old  Hiram  settled  it  at  last; 

"  The  time  was  two  —  too  dee-vel-ish  fast  !  " 

The  parson's  horse  had  won  the  bet; 

It  cost  him  something  of  a  sweat; 

Back  in  the  one-horse  shay  he  went; 

The  parson  wondered  what  it  meant, 

And  murmured,  with  a  mild  surprise 

And  pleasant  twinkle  of  the  eyes, 

"  That  funeral  must  have  been  a  trick, 

Or  corpses  drive  at  double-quick; 

I  should  n't  wonder,  I  declare, 

If  brother  —  Jehu  —  made  the  prayer  !  " 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say 
About  that  tough  old  trotting  bay, 
Huddup  !  Huddup  !  G'lang  !  Good  day  ! 

Moral  for  which  this  tale  is  told: 
A  horse  can  trot,  for  all  he  's  old. 


AN     APPEAL      FOR     "THE      OLD 
SOUTH" 

"  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand; 
When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall." 

[Written  in  the  spirit  of  Old  Ironsides. 
There  was  danger  that  the  historic  church  in 
Boston  would  be  destroyed,  since  it  stood  fin 


THE   FIRST   FAN 


237 


land  very  valuable  for  commercial  purposes, 
and  the  congregation  worshipping  in  it  had 
built  a  new  meeting-house  in  the  dwelling- 
house  part  of  the  city.  The  building  was 
saved  almost  wholly  through  the  intervention 
of  public-spirited  women,  headed  by  Mrs. 
Mary  Hemenway,  who  not  only  contributed 
most  of  the  money  needed,  but  afterward 
made  the  church  the  centre  of  important  work 
in  the  teaching  of  history.] 

FULL  sevenscore  years  our  city's  pride  — 

The  comely  Southern  spire  — 
Has  cast  its  shadow,  and  defied 

The  storm,  the  foe,  the  fire; 
Sad  is  the  sig'ht  our  eves  behold; 

Woe  to  the  three-hilled  town, 
When  through  the  land  the  tale  is  told  — 

"  The  brave  '  Old  South '  is  down  !  " 

Let  darkness  blot  the  starless  dawn 

That  hears  our  children  tell, 
"  Here  rose    the  walls,  now  wrecked    and 
gone, 

Our  fathers  loved  so  well; 
Here,  while  his  brethren  stood  aloof, 

The  herald's  blast  was  blown 
That  shook  St.  Stephen's  pillared  roof 

And  rocked  King  George's  throne  ! 

"  The  home-bound  wanderer  of  the  main 

Looked  from  his  deck  afar, 
To  where  the  gilded,  glittering  vane 

Shone  like  the  evening  star, 
And  pilgrim  feet  from  every  clime 

The  floor  with  reverence  trod, 
Where  holy  memories  made  sublime 

The  shrine  of  Freedom's  God  !  " 

The  darkened  skies,  alas  !  have  seen 

Our  monarch  tree  laid  low, 
And  spread  in  ruins  o'er  the  green, 

But  Nature  struck  the  blow; 
No  scheming  thrift  its  downfall  planned, 

It  felt  no  edge  of  steel, 
No  soulless  hireling  raised  his  hand 

The  deadly  stroke  to  deal. 

In  bridal  garlands,  pale  and  mute, 

Still  pleads  the  storied  tower; 
These  are  the  blossoms,  but  the  fruit 

Awaits  the  golden  shower; 
The  spire  still  greets  the  morning  sun,  — 

Say,  shall  it  stand  or  fall  ? 
Help,  ere  the  spoiler  has  begun  ! 

Help,  each,  and  God  help  all  ! 


THE  FIRST  FAN 


READ   AT   A    MEETING     OF     THE     BOSTON 
BRIC-A-BRAC  CLUB,  FEBRUARY  21,   1877 

WHEN  rose  the  cry  "  Great  Pan  is  dead  !  " 
And  Jove's  high  palace  closed  its  portal, 

The  fallen  gods,  before  they  fled, 
Sold  out  their  frippery  to  a  mortal. 

"  To  whom  ?  "  you  ask.     I  ask  of  you. 

The  answer  hardly  needs  suggestion; 
Of  course  it  was  the  Wandering  Jew,  — 

How  could  you  put  me  such  u  question  ? 

A  purple  robe,  a  little  worn, 

The  Thunderer  deigned  himself  to  offer; 
The  bearded  wanderer  laughed  in  scorn,  — 

You  know  he  always  was  a  scoffer. 

"  Vife  shillins  !  't  is  a  monstrous  price; 

Say  two  and  six  and  further  talk  shun." 
"Take    it,"    cried    Jove;    "we    can't    be 

nice,  — 

'T  would  fetch  twice  that  at  Leonard's 
auction." 

The  ice  was  broken;  up  they  came, 

All  sharp  for  bargains,  god  and  goddess, 

Each  ready  with  the  price  to  name 

For  robe  or  head-dress,  scarf  or  bodice. 

First  Juno,  out  of  temper,  too,  — 

Her  queenly  forehead  somewhat  cloudy; 

Then  Pallas  in  her  stockings  blue, 
Imposing,  but  a  little  dowdy. 

The  scowling  queen  of  heaven  unrolled 
Before  the  Jew  a  threadbare  turban: 

"Three    shillings."      "One.     'T  will   suit 

some  old 
Terrific  feminine  suburban," 

But  as  for  Pallas.  —  how  to  tell 

In  seemly  phrase  a  fact  so  shocking  ? 

She  pointed,  —  pray  excuse  me,  —  well, 
She  pointed  to  her  azure  stocking. 

And  if  the  honest  truth  were  told, 

Its  heel  confessed  the  need  of  darning; 
"Gods!"    low-bred    Vulcan   cried,    "be 
hold  ! 

There  !  that 's  what  comes  of  too  much 
larninjr  !  " 


238 


BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Pale  Proserpine  came  groping  round, 

Her  pupils  dreadfully  dilated 
With  too  much  living  underground  — 

A  residence  quite  overrated; 

"  This  kerchief 's  what  you  want,  I  know,  — 
Don't  cheat  poor  Venus  of  her  cestus,  — 

You  '11  find  it  handy  when  you  go 

To  —  you    know   where ;    it 's    pure  as- 
bestus." 


Then  Phcebus  of  the  silver  bow, 
And  Hebe,  dimpled  as  a  baby, 

And  Dian  with  the  breast  of  snow, 

Chaser  and  chased  —  and  caught,  it  may 
be: 

One  took  the  quiver  from  her  back, 
One  held  the  cap  he  spent  the  night  in, 

And  one  a  bit  of  bric-a-brac, 

Such  as  the  gods  themselves  delight  in. 

Then  Mars,  the  foe  of  human  kind, 

Strode  up  and  showed  his  suit  of  armor; 

So  none  at  last  was  left  behind 
Save  Venus,  the  celestial  charmer. 

Poor  Venus  !     What  had  she  to  sell  ? 

For  all  she  looked  so  fresh  and  jaunty, 
Her  wardrobe,  as  I  blush  to  tell, 

Already  seemed  but  quite  too  scanty. 

Her  gems  were  sold,  her  sandals  gone, — 
She  always  would  be  rash  and  flighty,  — 

Her  winter  garments  all  in  pawn, 
Alas  for  charming  Aphrodite  ! 

The  lady  of  a  thousand  loves, 
The  darling  of  the  old  religion, 

Had  only  left  of  all  the  doves 

That  drew  her  car  one  fan-tailed  pigeon. 

How  oft  upon  her  finger-tips 

He  perched,  afraid  of  Cupid's  arrow, 

Or  kissed  her  on  the  rosebud  lips, 

Like  Roman  Lesbia's  loving  sparrow  ! 

"  My  bird,  I  want  your  train,"  she  cried; 

"  Come,  don't  let's  have  a  fuss  about  it; 
I  '11  make  it  beauty's  pet  and  pride, 

And  you  '11  be  better  off  without  it. 

"  So  vulgar  !     Have  you  noticed,  pray, 
An  earthly  belle  or  dashing  bride  walk, 


And  how  her  flounces  track  her  way, 
Like  slimy  serpents  on  the  sidewalk  ? 

"  A  lover's  heart  it  quickly  cools ; 

In  mine  it  kindles  up  enough  rage 
To  wring  their  necks.     How  can  such  fools 

Ask  men  to  vote  for  woman  suffrage  ?  " 

The  goddess  spoke,  and  gently  stripped 
Her  bird  of  every  caudal  feather; 

A  strand  of  gold-bright  hair  she  clipped, 
And  bound  the  glossy  plumes  together, 

And  lo,  the  Fan  !  for  beauty's  hand, 
The  lovely  queen  of  beauty  made  it; 

The  price  she  named  was  hard  to  stand, 
But  Venus  smiled:  the  Hebrew  paid  it. 

Jove,  Juno,  Venus,  where  are  you  ? 

Mars,  Mercury,  Phoebus,  Neptune,  Sat 
urn  ? 
But  o'er  the  world  the  Wandering  Jew 

Has  borne  the  Fan's  celestial  pattern. 

So  everywhere  we  find  the  Fan,  — 

In  lonely  isles  of  the  Pacific, 
In  farthest  China  and  Japan,  — 

Wherever  suns  are  sudorific. 

Nay,  even  the  oily  Esquimaux 

In  summer  court  its  cooling  breezes,  — 
In  fact,  in  every  clime  't  is  so, 

No  matter  if  it  fries  or  freezes. 

And  since  from  Aphrodite's  dove 
The  pattern  of  the  fan  was  given, 

No  wonder  that  it  breathes  of  love 

And  wafts  the  perfumed  gales  of  heaven  ! 

Before  this  new  Pandora's  gift 

In  slavery  woman's  tyrant  kept  her, 

But  now  he  kneels  her  glove  to  lift,  — 
The  fan  is  mightier  than  the  sceptre. 

The  tap  it  gives  how  arch  and  sly  ! 

The    breath    it    wakes    how    fresh   and 

grateful  ! 
Behind  its  shield  how  soft  the  sigh  ! 

The  whispered  tale  of  shame  how  fateful ! 

Its  empire  shadows  every  throne 

And  every  shore  that  man  is  tost  on ; 

It  rules  the  lords  of  every  zone, 

Nay,  even  the  bluest  blood  of  Boston  ! 


A    FAMILY    RECORD 


239 


But  every  one  that  swings  to-night, 
Of  fairest  shape,  from  farthest  region, 

May  trace  its  pedigree  aright 
To  Aphrodite's  fan-tailed  pigeon. 


TO 


RUTHERFORD 
HAYES 


BIRCHARD 


AT   THE    DINNER   TO   THE    PRESIDENT, 
1JOSTON,  JUNE  26,   IS/7 

How  to  address  him  ?  awkward,  it  is  true: 
Call  him  "  Great  Father,"  as  the  Red  Men 

do? 

Borrow  some  title  ?  this  is  not  the  place 
That    christens  men    Your    Highness    and 

Your  Grace; 
We  tried  such  names  as  these  awhile,  you 

know, 
But  left  them  off  a  century  ago, 

His  Majesty  ?     We  've  had  enough  of  that: 
Besides,   that  needs  a  crown;  he   wears   a 

bat. 

What  if,  to  make  the  nicer  ears  content, 
We  say  His  Honesty,  the  President  ? 

Sir,  we  believed  yon  honest,  truthful,  brave, 
When  to  your  hands  their   precious   trust 

we  gave, 

And  we  have  found  you  better  than  we  knew, 
Braver,  and  not  less  honest,  not  less  true  ! 
So  every  heart  has  opened,  every  hand 
Tingles  with  welcome,  and  through  all  the 

land 

All  voices  greet  you  in  one  broad  acclaim, 
Healer   of     strife  !      Has    earth   a   nobler 

name  ? 

What  phrases   mean   yon  do  not    need  to 

learn; 

We  must  be  civil,  and  they  serve  our  turn : 
"  Your  most  obedient  humble  "  means  — 

means  what  ? 

Something  the  well-bred  signer  just  is  not. 
Yet  there  are  tokens,  sir,  you  must  believe ; 
There  is  one  language  never  can  deceive: 
The  lover  knew  it  when  the  maiden  smiled; 
The  mother  knows  it  when  she  clasps  her 

child; 

Yoices  may  falter,  trembling  lips  turn  pale, 
Words   grope   and   stumble;    this  will  tell 

their  tale 
Shorn  of  all  rhetoric,  bare  of  all  pretence, 


But  radiant,  warm,  with  Nature's  eloquence. 
Look  in  our  eyes  !     Your  welcome  waits 

you  there,  — 
Xorth,    South,    East,    West,  from  all  and 

everywhere  ! 

THE    SHIP    OF    STATE 

A    SENTIMENT 

This  u  sentiment  "  was  read  on  the  same  oc 
casion  as  the  Family  litcord,  which  immedi 
ately  follows  it.  The  latter  poem  is  the  dutiful 
tribute  of  a  son  to  his  father  and  his  father's 
ancestors,  residents  of  Woodstock  [Connecticut] 
from  its  first  settlement.  [The  occasion  was 
the  celebration  of  the  Fourth  of  July,  1ST7,  in 
accordance  with  a  custom  established  at  Wood 
stock  by  Mr.  11.  C.  Bowen.J 

THE  Ship  of  State  !    above  her  skies  are 

blue, 

But  still  she  rocks  a  little,  it  is  true, 
And  there  are  passengers  whose  faces  white 
Show    they    don't    feel    as    happy  as    they 

might; 

Yet  on  the  whole  her  crew  are  quite  content, 
Since  its  wild  fury  the  typhoon  has  spent, 
And  willing,  if  her  pilot  thinks  it  best, 
To  head  a  little  nearer  south  by  west. 
And  this  they  feel:  the  ship  came  too  near 

wreck, 

In  the  long  quarrel  for  the  quarter-deck, 
Xow  when  she  glides  serenely  on  her  way,  — 
The  shallows  past  where  dread  explosives 

lay,  — 

The  stiff  obstructive's  churlish  game  to  try: 
Let  sleeping  dogs  and  still  torpedoes  lie  ! 
And  so  I  give  you  all  the  Ship  of  State; 
Freedom's    last    venture   is     her    priceless 

freight; 
God  speed  her,  keep  her,  bless  her,  while 

she  steers 

Amid  the  breakers  of  unsounded  years; 
Lead  her  through  danger's  paths  with  even 

keel, 
And  guide  the  honest  hand  that  holds   her 

wheel ! 


A  FAMILY  RECORD 

XOT  to  myself  this  breath  of  vesper  song, 
Xot    to   these    patient  friends,  this  kindly 

throng, 
Xot  to  this  hallowed  morning,  though  it  be 


240 


BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Our  summer  Christmas,  Freedom's  jubilee, 
When   every    summit,     topmast,     steeple, 

tower, 
That  owns  her  empire  spreads  her  starry 

flower, 

Its  blood-streaked  leaves  hi  heaven's  be 
nignant  dew 
Washed   clean   from   every  crimson  stain 

they  knew,  — 

No,  not  to  these  the  passing  thrills  belong 
That  steal  my  breath  to  hush  themselves 

with  song. 
These  moments  all  are  memory's;  I  have 

come 
To  speak  with  lips  that  rather  should  be 

dumb; 
For   what   are    words  ?     At  every  step    I 

tread 
The  dust  that  wore  the  footprints  of   the 

dead 

But  for  whose  life  my  life  had  never  known 
This  faded  vesture  which  it  calls  its  own. 
Here  sleeps  my  father's  sire,  and  they  who 

gave 
That  earlier  life  here  found  their  peaceful 

grave. 
In   days   gone  by  I  sought  the  hallowed 

ground ; 
Climbed  you  long  slope;  the  sacred  spot  I 

found 

Where  all  unsullied  lies  the  winter  snow, 
Where  all  ungathered  spring's  pale  violets 

blow, 
And    tracked    from    stone   to   stone     the 

Saxon  name 
That  marks  the  blood  I  need  not  blush  to 

claim, 
Blood  such  as  warmed  the  Pilgrim  sons  of 

toil, 

Who  held  from  God  the  charter  of  the  soil. 

I  come  an  alien  to  your  hills  and  plains, 

Yet  feel  your   birthright   tingling   in   my 

veins; 
Mine  are  this  changing  prospect's  sun  and 

shade, 

In   full-blown   summer's  bridal  pomp   ar 
rayed  ; 

Mine  these  fair  hillsides  and  the  vales  be 
tween; 
Mine  the  sweet   streams  that   lend   their 

brightening  green; 
I  breathed  your  air  —  the  sunlit  landscape 

smiled; 
I  touch  your  soil  —  it  knows  its  children's 

child; 


Throned  in  my  heart  your  heritage  is  mine ; 
I  claim  it  all  by  memory's  right  divine  ! 
Waking,  I   dream.     Before   my   vacant 

eyes 

In  long  procession  shadowy  forms  arise; 
Far  through  the  vista  of  the  silent  years 
I  see  a  venturous  band ;  the  pioneers, 
Who  let  the  sunlight  through  the  forest's 

gloom, 
Who  bade   the  harvest  wave,  the  garden 

bloom. 

Hark  !  loud  resounds  the  bare-armed  set 
tler's  axe,  — 
See  where   the   stealthy  panther   left   his 

tracks  ! 
As  fierce,  as  stealthy  creeps  the  skulking 

foe 
With  stone-tipped  shaft  and  sinew-corded 

bow; 

Soon  shall  he  vanish  from  his  ancient  reign, 
Leave  his  last  cornfield  to  the  coming  train, 
Quit  the  green  margin  of  the  wave  he 

drinks, 
For  haunts  that  hide  the  wild-cat  and  the 

lynx. 

But  who  the  Youth  his   glistening  axe 

that  swings 
To  smite  the  pine  that  shows  a  hundred 

rings  ? 
His   features  ?  —  something  in  his  look  I 

find 
That  calls  the  semblance   of  my  race  to 

mind. 
His    name  ?  —  my   own ;    and   that   which 

goes  before 

The  same  that  once  the  loved  disciple  bore. 
Young,  brave,  discreet,  the  father  of  a  line 
Whose  voiceless  lives  have  found  a  voice 

in  mine; 
Thinned  by  unnumbered  currents  though 

they  be, 
Thanks  for  the  ruddy  drops  I  claim  from 

thee  ! 

The  seasons  pass;  the  roses  come  and  go; 
Snows  fall  and  melt;  the  waters  freeze  and 

flow; 
The  boys  are   men;    the   girls,  grown  tall 

and  fair, 
Have  found  their  mates;  a  gravestone  here 

and  there 
Tells  where  the    fathers  lie;  the   silvered 

hair 
Of  some  bent  patriarch  yet  recalls  the  time 


A   FAMILY   RECORD 


241 


That   saw   his   feet   the    northern   hillside 

climb, 

A  pilgrim  from  the  pilgrims  far  away, 
The  godly  men,  the  dwellers  by  the  bay. 
On  many  a  hearthstone  burns  the  cheerful 

fire  ; 
The    schoolhouse    porch,    the    heavenward 

pointing  spire 

Proclaim  in  letters  every  eye  can  read, 
Knowledge  and  Faith,  the  new  world's  sim 
ple  creed. 
Hush  !  't  is  the  Sabbath's  silence-stricken 

morn : 
Xo  feet  must  wander  through  the  tasselled 

corn ; 

Xo  merry  children  laugh  around  the  door, 
No  idle  playthings  strew  the  sanded  floor; 
The  law  of  Moses  lays  its  awful  ban 
On  all  that  stirs;  here   comes  the  tithing- 

inan  ! 
At    last    the    solemn    hour    of    worship 

calls; 

Slowly  they  gather  in  the  sacred  walls; 
Man  in  his  strength  and  age  with  knotted 

staff, 
And    boyhood    aching    for    its    week-day 

laugh, 
The   toil-worn  mother  with    the  child  she 

leads, 

The  maiden,  lovely  in  her  golden  beads,  — 
The  popish  symbols  round   her  neck   she 

wears, 
But  on  them   counts    her  lovers,  not  her  i 

prayers,  — 

Those  youths  in  homespun  suits  and  rib 
boned  queues, 

Whose    hearts    are    beating    in    the   high- 
backed  pews. 

The  pastor  rises;  looks  along  the  seats 
With  searching  eye;  each  wonted  face  he 

meets; 
Asks  heavenly  guidance ;  finds  the  chapter's 

place 
That  tells  some  tale  of   Israel's   stubborn 

race ; 

Gives  out  the  sacred  song;  all  voices  join, 
For  no  quartette  extorts  their  scantj7"  coin; 
Then  while   both  hands  their  black-gloved 

palms  display, 
Lifts  his  gray  head,  and  murmurs,  "  Let  ns 

pray  !  " 
And  pray  he    does  !  as  one  that   never 

fears 

To  plead  unanswered  by  the  God  that  hears; 
What  if  he  dwells  on  many  a  fact  as  though 


Some    things   Heaven  knew  not  which  it 

ought  to  know,  — 

Thanks  God  for  all  his  favors  past,  and  yet, 
Tells  Him  there  's  something  He  must  not 

forget; 
Such  are  the  prayers  his    people  love    to 

hear,  — 

See  how  the  Deacon  slants  his  listening  ear  ! 
What  !  look    once    more  !     Xav,    surely 

there  I  trace 

The  hinted  outlines  of  a  well-known  face  ! 
Xot  those  the  lips  for  laughter  to  beguile, 
Yet  round  their  corners  lurks  an  embrvo 

smile, 

The  same  on  other  lips  my  childhood  knew 
That  scarce   the   Sabbath's  mastery  could 

subdue. 
Him  too   my  lineage    gives    me    leave    to 

claim,  — 

The  good,  grave  man  that  bears  the  Psalm 
ist's  name. 

And  still  in    ceaseless  round  the  seasons 

passed; 
Spring  piped  her  carol;   Autumn  blew  his 

blast; 
Babes  waxed  to  manhood;  manhood  shrunk 

to  age; 
Life's    worn-out    players     tottered  oil'    the 

stage; 

The  few  are  many;  boys  have  grown  to  men 
Since  Putnam  dragged  the  wolf  from  Pom- 
fret's  den; 

Our  new-old  Woodstock  is  a  thriving  town; 
Brave   are    her    children;    faithful    to    the 

crown; 
Her    soldiers'    steel    the    savage    redskin 

knows ; 
Their  blood  has  crimsoned    his  Canadian 

snows. 

And  now  once  more  along  the  quiet  vale 
Rings  the  dread  call  that  turns  the  mothers 

pale; 
Full  well  they  know  the  valorous  heat  that 

runs 

In  every  pulse-beat  of  their  loyal  sons; 
Who  would  not  bleed  in  good  King  George's 

cause 
When  England's  lion  shows  his  teeth  and 

claws  ? 
With  glittering  firelocks  on  the  village 

green 

In  proud  array  a  martial  band  is  seen ; 
You  know  what  names  those  ancient  rosters 

hold,  — 


242 


BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Whose  belts  were  buckled  when  the  drain- 
beat  rolled,  — 

But  mark  their  Captain!  tell  us,  who   is 
he? 

On  his  brown  face  that  same  old  look   I 
see! 

Yes  !  from  the  homestead's  still  retreat  he 
came, 

Whose  peaceful  owner  bore  the  Psalmist's 
name ; 

The  same  his  own.     Well,  Israel's  glorious 
king 

Who  struck  the  harp  could  also  whirl  the 
sling,— 

Breathe  in  his  song  a  penitential  sigh 

And  smite  the  sons  of   Amalek  hip   and 
thigh: 

These  shared  their  task;  one  deaconed  out 
the  psalm, 

One   slashed   the   scalping   hell-hounds  of 
Moutcalm ; 

The  praying  father's  pious  work  is  done, 

Now  sword  in  hand  steps  forth  the  fighting 

son. 
On  many  a  field  he  fought  in  wilds  afar; 

See  on  his  swarthy  cheek  the  bullet's  scar  ! 

There  hangs  a  murderous  tomahawk;  be 
neath, 

Without  its  blade,  a  knife's  embroidered 
sheath; 

Save  for  the  stroke  his  trusty  weapon  dealt 

His   scalp   had   dangled  at  their   owner's 
belt; 

But  not  for  him  such  fate ;  he  lived  to  see 

The  bloodier  strife  that  made  our  nation 
free, 

To   serve   with   willing   toil,   with   skilful 
hand, 

The  war-worn  saviors  of  the  bleeding  land. 

His  wasting  life  to  others'  needs  he  gave,  — 

Sought  rest  in  home  and  found  it  in  the 
grave. 

See  where  the  stones  life's  brief  memorials 
keep, 

The    tablet    telling    where    he    "fell    on 
sleep,"— 

Watched   by   a   winged    cherub's    rayless 
eye,— 

A  scroll  above  that  says  we  all  must  die,  — 

Those  saddening  lines  beneath,  the  "  Night- 
Thoughts  "  lent: 

So  stands  the  Soldier's,  Surgeon's  monu 
ment. 

Ah!  at  a  glance  my  filial  eye  divines 

The  scholar  son  in  those  remembered  lines. 


The  Scholar  Son.     His  hand  my  foot 
steps  led. 

No  more  the  dim  unreal  past  I  tread. 
O  thou  whose  breathing  form  was  once  so 

dear, 

Whose  cheering  voice  was  music  to  my  ear, 
Art  thou  not  with  me  as  my  feet  pursue 
The    village    paths    so    well   thy    boyhood 

knew, 

Along  the  tangled  margin  of  the  stream 
Whose    murmurs   blended  with   thine    in 
fant  dream, 

Or  climb  the  hill,  or  thread  the  wooded  vale, 
Or  seek  the  wave  where  gleams  yon  dis 
tant  sail, 
Or  the  old  homestead's  narrowed  bounds 

explore, 
Where  sloped  the  roof  that  sheds  the  rains 

no  more, 

Where  one  last  relic  still  remains  to  tell 
Here  stood  thy  home,  —  the  memory-haunt 
ed  well, 
Whose  waters  quench  a  deeper  thirst  than 

thine, 

Changed  at  my  lips  to  sacramental  wine,  — 
Art  thou  not  with  me,  as  I  fondly  trace 
The  scanty  records  of  thine  honored  race, 
Call  up  the  forms  that  earlier  years  have 

known, 

And  spell  the  legend  of  each  slanted  stone  ? 
With  thoughts  of  thee  my  loving  verse 

began, 

Not  for  the  critic's  curious  eye  to  scan, 
Not  for  the  many  listeners,  but  the  few 
Whose  fathers  trod  the  paths  my  fathers 

knew; 
Still  in  my  heart  thy  loved  remembrance 

burns ; 

Still  to  my  lips  thy  cherished  name  returns; 
Could  I  but  feel  thy  gracious  presence  near 
Amid  the  groves  that  once  to  thee  were 

dear  ! 
Could  but  my  trembling  lips  with  mortal 

speech 
Thy  listening   ear   for  one  brief   moment 

reach  ! 
How  vain  the  dream  !    The  pallid  voyager's 

track 

No  sign  betrays;  he  sends  no  message  back. 
No  word  from  thee  since  evening's  shadow 

fell 

On  thy  cold  forehead  with  my  long  fare 
well,  — 

Now  from  the  margin  of  the  silent  sea, 
Take  my  last  offering  ere  I  cross  to  thee  ! 


THE  IRON  GATE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

1877-1881 
THE    IRON    GATE 


[Read  at  the  Breakfast  given  in  honor  of 
Dr.  Holmes's  Seventieth  Birthday  by  the  pub 
lishers  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Boston,  De 
cember  •),  1><79.] 

WHERE    is    this  patriarch  you    arc  kindly 

greeting  ? 

Xot  unfamiliar  to  my  car  his  name, 
Xor  yet  unknown  to  many  a  joyous  meet 
ing 

In  days  long  vanished,  —  is  he  still  the 
same, 

Or  changed   by  years,  forgotten  and  for 
getting, 
Dull-eared,  dim-sighted,  slow  of  speech 

and  thought, 

Still  o'er  the  sad,  degenerate  present  fret 
ting, 

Where  all  goes  wrong,  and  nothing  as  it 
ought  ? 

Old  age,  the  graybeard!     Well,  indeed,  I 

know  him.  — 
Shrunk,  tottering,  bent,  of  aches  and  ills 

the  prey; 

In  sermon,  story,  fable,  picture,  poem, 
Oft  have  I  met  him  from  my  earliest  dav: 

In  my  old  .Esop,  toiling  with  his  bundle,  — 
His    load    of    sticks,  —  politely    asking- 
Death, 
Who  comes  when  called  for,  —  would  he   j 

lug  or  trundle 
His  fagot  for  him  ?  —  he  was  scant  of 
breath. 

And  sad  "  Ecclesiastes,  or  the  Preacher,"  - 
Has   he  not  stamped  the  image  on  my 
soul, 


In   that  last  chapter,  where  the  worn-out 

Teacher 

Sighs  o'er  the  loosened  cord,  the  broken 
bowl  ? 

Yes,  long,  indeed,  I  've    known    him   at  a 

distance, 
And  now  my  lifted  door-latch  shows  him 

here; 

I  take  his  shrivelled  hand  without  resist 
ance, 

And  find  him  smiling  as  his  step  draws 
near. 

What  though  of  gilded  baubles  he  bereaves 

us, 
Dear  to  the  heart  of  youth,  to  manhood's 

prime; 
Think  of  the  calm  he  brings,  the  wealth  he 

leaves  us, 
The  hoarded  spoils,  the  legacies  of  time  ! 

Altars  once  flaming,  still  with  incense  fra 
grant, 

Passion's  uneasy  nurslings  rocked  asleep, 
Hope's  anchor  faster,  wild  desire  less  va 
grant, 

Life's    How    less    noisy,    but   the  stream 
how  deep  ! 

Still   as    the    silver   cord    gets    worn    and 

slender, 

Its  lightened  task-work  tugs  with  lessen 
ing  strain, 
Hands    get    more    helpful,    voices,    grown 

more  tender, 

Soothe    with    their    softened   tones    the 
slumberous  brain. 

Youth  longs  and  manhood  strives,  but  age 

remembers. 
Sits  by  the  raked-up  ashes  of  the  past, 


243 


244 


THE  IRON  GATE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Spreads  its  thiii  bands  above  the  whitening 

embers 

That   warm   its  creeping  life-blood   till 
the  last. 

Dear  to  its  heart  is  every  loving  token 
That  comes  unbidden  ere  its  pulse  grows 

cold, 
Ere   the   last   lingering  ties    of    life    are 

broken, 
Its  labors  ended  and  its  story  told. 

Ah,  while  around  us  rosy  youth  rejoices, 
For  us  the  sorrow-laden  breezes  sigh, 

And  through  the  chorus  of  its  jocund  voices 
Throbs  the  sharp  note  of  misery's  hope 
less  cry. 

As  on  the  gauzy  wings  of  fancy  flying 
From  some  far  orb  I  track  our  watery 

sphere, 

Home  of  the  struggling,  suffering,  doubt 
ing,  dying, 

The  silvered  globule  seems  a  glistening 
tear. 

But  Nature  lends  her  mirror  of  illusion 
To  win  from  saddening  scenes  our  age- 
dimmed  eyes, 

And  misty  day-dreams  blend  in  sweet  con 
fusion 

The  wintry   landscape  and  the  summer 
skies. 

So  when  the  iron  portal  shuts  behind  us, 

And  life  forgets  us  in  its  noise  and  whirl, 
Visions  that  shunned  the  glaring  noonday 

find  us, 

And   glimmering    starlight    shows    the 
gates  of  pearl. 

I  come  not  here  your  morning  hour  to  sad 
den, 

A  limping  pilgrim,  leaning  on  his  staff,  — 
I,  who  have  never  deemed  it  sin  to  gladden 
This  vale  of  sorrows  with  a  wholesome 
laugh. 

If   word    of    mine    another's    gloom    has 

brightened, 
Through  my  dumb  lips  the  heaven-sent 

message  came; 

If  hand  of  mine  another's  task  has  lightened, 
It  felt  the  guidance  that  it  dares  not 
claim. 


But,  O  my  gentle  sisters,  O  my  brothers, 
These   thick-sown    snow-flakes   hint    of 

toil's  release; 

These  feebler  pulses  bid  me  leave  to  others 
The  tasks  once  welcome;  evening   asks 
for  peace. 

Time   claims    his   tribute;  silence   now   is 

golden ; 
Let  me  not  vex  the  too  long  suffering 

lyre; 

Though  to  your  love  untiring  still  beholden, 
The  curfew  tells  me  —  cover  up  the  fire. 

And  now  with  grateful  smile  and  accents 

cheerful, 
And   warmer  heart   than  look  or  word 

can  tell, 
In  simplest  phrase  —  these  traitorous  eyes 

are  tearful  — 

Thanks,    Brothers,   Sisters,  —  Children, 
—  and  farewell! 


VESTIGIA     QUINQUE     RETROR- 

SUM 


AN    ACADEMIC    POEM 
1829-1879 

Read  at  the  Commencement  Dinner  of  the 
Alumni  of  Harvard  University,  June  25,  1879. 

WHILE  fond,  sad  memories   all  around 

us  throng, 

Silence  were  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  song; 
Yet  when  the  leaves  are  green  and  heaven 

is  blue, 

The  choral  tribute  of  the  grove  is  due, 
And  when    the    lengthening   nights   have 

chilled  the  skies, 
We  fain  would  hear  the  song-bird  ere  he 

flies, 
And  greet  with  kindly  welcome,  even  as 

now, 
The  lonely  minstrel  on  his  leafless  bough. 

This   is   our   golden   year,  —  its  golden 

day ; 

Its  bridal  memories  soon  must  pass  away; 
Soon  shall  its  dying  music  cease  to  ring, 
And  every  year  must  loose   some   silver 

string, 


VESTIGIA   QUIXQUE    RETRORSUM 


245 


Till   the  last  trembling  chords    no  longer 

thrill,  — 
Hands  all  at  rest  and  hearts  forever  still. 

A  few  gray  heads  have  joined  the  form 
ing  line; 

We  hear  our  summons,  —  "  Class  of 
'Twenty-Nine  !  " 

Close  on  the  foremost,  and,  alas,  how  few  ! 

Are  these  "  The  Boys  "  our  dear  old  Mother 
knew  ? 

Sixty  brave  swimmers.  Twenty  —  some 
thing  more  — 

Have  passed  the  stream  and  reached  this 
frosty  shore  ! 

How  near  the  banks  these  fifty  years  di 
vide 

When  memory  crosses  with  a  single  stride  ! 

T  is  the  first"  year  of  stern  "  Old  Hick 
ory  "  's  rule 

When  our  good  Mother  lets  us  out  of 
school. 

Half  glad,  half  sorrowing,  it  must  be  con 
fessed, 

To  leave  her  quiet  lap,  her  bounteous  breast, 


Sees  from   his   theme    the  turgid  rhetoric 

ooze; 

And  the  born  soldier,  fate  decreed  to  wreak 
His  martial  manhood  on  a  class  in  Greek, 
Popkin  !     How  that  explosive  name  recalls 
The  grand  old  Busby  of  our  ancient  halls  ! 
Such  faces    looked   from    Skippon's    grim 

platoons, 

Such  figures  rode  with  Ireton's  stout  dra 
goons; 
He  gave  his  strength  to  learning's  gentle 

charms, 

But    every     accent     sounded     "  Shoulder 
arms  ! " 

Xames,  —  empty     names  !       Save     only 

here  and  there 
Some  white-haired   listener,  dozing  in  his 

chair, 

Starts  at  the  sound  he  often  used  to  hear, 
And  upward  slants  his  Sunday-sermon  ear. 


And  we  —  our  blooming  manhood  we  re 
gain; 
Smiling  we  join  the  long  Commencement 

train, 

Armed  with  our  dainty,  ribbon-tied  degrees,       One  point  first  battled  in  discussion  hot,  — 
Pleased  and  yet  pensive,  exiles  and  A.  B.'s.       Shall  we  wear  gowns  ?  and  settled:    Wo  will 

not. 

Look  back,  O  comrades,  with  your  faded   |   How  strange  the  scene,  —  that  noisy  boy- 
eyes,  debate 

And  see  the  phantoms  as  I  bid  them  rise.         Where  embryo-speakers  learn  to  rule  the 
Whose  smile  is  that  ?     Its  pattern  Xatuiv   j  State  f 

gave,  j   This  broad-browed  youth,  sedate  and  sober- 


A  sunbeam  dancing  in  a  dimpled  wave; 
KIRKLAND  alone  such  grace  from  Heaven 

could  win, 

His  features  radiant  as  the  soul  within; 
That  smile  would  let    him  through    Saint 

Peter's  gate 
While  sad-eyed  martyrs  had  to  stand  and 

wait. 

Here  flits  mercurial  Farrar;  standing  there, 
See  mild,  benignant,  cautious,  learned  Ware, 
And  sturdy,  patient,  faithful,  honest  Hedge, 
Whose  grinding  logic  gave  our  wits  their 

edge ; 
Ticknor,  with   honeyed  voice  and  courtly 

grace ; 

And  Willard,  larynxed  like  a  double  bass; 
And    Charming,    with   his    bland,  superior 

look, 

Cool  as  a  moonbeam  on  a  frozen  brook, 
While  the   pale   student,  shivering  in  his 

shoes. 


eyed, 
Shall  wear  the    ermined  robe  at    Taney's 

side ; 
And  he,  the  stripling,  smooth  of  face  and 

slight, 
Whose  slender  form  scarce  intercepts  the 

light, 
Shall  rule  the  Bench  where  Parsons  gave 

the  law, 
And     sphinx-like     sat     uncouth,     majestic 

Shaw  ! 

Ah,  many  a  star  has  shed  its  fatal  ray 
On   names    we     loved  —  our    brothers  — 

where  are  they  ? 
Xor    these    alone;    our   hearts    in     silence 

claim 
Xames  not  less  dear,  unsyllabled  by  fame. 

How  brief  the  space  !  and  yet  it  sweeps 

us  back 
Far,  far  along  our  new-born  history's  track  ! 


246 


THE  IRON  GATE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Five  strides  like  this ;  —  the  sachem  rules 

the  laud; 
The   Indian   wigwams    cluster   where   we 

stand. 

The   second.      Lo  !    a   scene   of   deadly 

strife  — 

A  nation  struggling  into  infant  life; 
Not  yet  the  fatal  game  at  Yorktown  won 
Where  failing  Empire  fired  its  sunset  gun. 
LANGDON  sits  restless  in  the  ancient  chair, — 
Harvard's     grave     Head,  — these     echoes 

heard  his  prayer 
When  from  yon  mansion,  dear  to  memory 

still, 
The  banded  yeomen  marched  for  Bunker's 

Hill. 
Count  on  the  grave  triennial's  thick-starred 

roll 

WThat  names  were  numbered  on  the  length 
ening  scroll,  — 

Not  unfamiliar  in  our  ears  they  ring,  — 
Winthrop,   Hale,    Eliot,   Everett,   Dexter, 

Tyng. 

Another  stride.     Once  more  at  'twenty- 
nine,  — 
GOD  SAVE  KING  GEORGE,  the  Second  of  his 

line  ! 

And  is  Sir  Isaac  living  ?     Nay,  not  so,  — 
He   followed   Flamsteed  two   short    years 

ago,— 
And  what   about   the   little   hump-backed 

man 
Who   pleased   the   bygone   days   of    good 

Queen  Anne  ? 
What,  Pope  ?  another  book  he  's  just  put 

out, — 
"  The  Dunciad,"  —  witty,  but  profane,  no 

doubt. 
Where  's  Cotton   Mather  ?  he   was   always 

here. 

And  so  he  would  be,  but  he  died  last  year. 
Who   is   this   preacher   our    Northampton 

claims, 
Whose   rhetoric   blazes   with    sulphureous 

flames 

And  torches  stolen  from  Tartarean  mines  ? 
Edwards,  the  salamander  of  divines. 
A  deep,  strong  nature,  pure  and  undefiled; 
Faith,  firm  as  his  who  stabbed  his  sleeping 

child; 

Alas  for  him  who  blindly  strays  apart, 
And  seeking  God  has  lost  his  human  heart ! 


Fall  where  they  might,  no   flying   cinders 

caught 
These   sober    halls    where    WADSWORTII 

ruled  and  taught. 

One  footstep  more;  the  fourth  receding 

stride 
Leaves  the  round  century  on   the  nearer 

side. 
GOD  SAVE  KING  CHARLES  !     God  knows 

that  pleasant  knave 

His  grace  will  find  it  hard  enough  to  save. 
Ten  years  and  more,  and  now  the  Plague, 

the  Fire, 

Talk  of  all  tongues,  at  last  begin  to  tire ; 
One  fear  prevails,  all  other  frights  forgot,  — 
White  lips  are  whispering,  —  hark  !     The 

Popish  Plot ! 
Happy  New  England,  from  such  troubles 

free 

In  health  and  peace  beyond  the  stormy  sea  ! 
No  Romish  daggers   threat  her  children's 

throats, 
No  gibbering   nightmare   mutters    "  Titus 

Oates;  " 
Philip    is   slain,   the    Quaker   graves    are 

green, 

Not  yet  the  witch  has  entered  on  the  scene ; 
Happy  our  Harvard ;  pleased  her  graduates 

four; 
URIAN  OAKES  the  name  their  parchments 

bore. 

Two  centuries  past,   our    hurried    feet 

arrive 

At  the  last  footprint  of  the  scanty  five; 
Take  the  fifth  stride;  our  wandering  eyes 

explore 

A  tangled  forest  on  a  trackless  shore; 
Here,  where  we  stand,  the  savage  sorcerer 

howls, 
The  wild  cat  snarls,  the  stealthy  gray  wolf 

prowls, 

The  slouching  bear,  perchance  the  tramp 
ling  moose 
Starts  the  brown  squaw  and  scares  her  red 

pappoose; 

At  every  step  the  lurking  foe  is  near; 
His   Demons   reign;   God   has   no   temple 

here  ! 

Lift  up  your  eyes  !  behold  these  pictured 

walls ; 
Look  where  the  flood  of  western  glory  falls 


MY    AVIARY 


247 


Through  the  great  sunflower  disk  of  blaz 
ing  panes 

In  ruby,  saffron,  azure,  emerald  stains; 

With  reverent  step  the  marble  pavement 
tread 

Where  our  proud  Mother's  martyr-roll  is 
read ; 

See  the  great  halls  that  cluster,  gathering 
round 

This  lofty  shrine  with  holiest  memories 
crowned; 

See  the  fair  Matron  in  her  summer  bower, 

Fresh  as  a  rose  in  bright  perennial  flower; 

Head  on  her  standard,  always  in  the  van, 

"TRUTH,"  —  the  one  word  that  makes  a 
slave  a  man; 

Think  whose  the  hands  that  fed  her  altar- 
fires, 

Then  count  the  debt  we  owe  our  scholar- 
sires  ! 

Brothers,  farewell  !  the  fast  declining  ray 
Fades  to  the  twilight  of  our  golden  day; 
Some  lesson  yet  our  wearied  brains    may 

learn, 
Some  leaves,  perhaps,  in  life's  thin  volume 

turn. 
How  few  they  seem  as  in  our  waning  a 

J  O 


I  see  the  solemn  gulls  in  council  sitting 
On  some  broad  ice-floe  pondering   long 

and  late, 
While  overhead  the  home-bound  ducks  are 

flitting, 
And  leave  the  tardy  conclave  in  debate, 

Those  weighty  questions  in  their  breasts  re 
volving 
Whose    deeper   meaning   science    never 

learns, 

Till    at    some    reverend    elder's    look   dis 
solving, 
The  speechless  senate  silently  adjourns. 

But  when  along  the  waves  the  shrill  north 
easter 
Shrieks  through    the    laboring    coaster's 

shrouds  "  Beware  !  " 
The  pale  bird,  kindling  like  a  Christmas 

f caster 

When  some  wild  chorus  shakes  the  vinous 
air, 


Flaps  from  the  leaden  wave  in  fierce  re 
joicing, 

Feels  heaven's  dumb  lightning  tin-ill  his 
^    ^  torpid  nerves, 

We  count   them  backwards    to   the    title-       Xow  on  the    blast  his  whistling   plumage 

page  ! 

Oh  let  us  trust  with  holy  men  of  old 
Not  all  the  story  here  begun  is  told; 


poisin< 
Xow     wheeling,    whirlim 


in    fantastic 


So  the  tired  spirit,  waiting  to  be  freed, 

On  life's  last  leaf  with  tranquil  eye  shall      Such  is  our  gull;  a  gentleman  of  leisure, 
read  ~  


By  the  pale  glimmer  of  the  torch  reversed, 
Not  Finis,  but  The  End  of  Volume  First ! 


MY   AVIARY 

THROUGH  my  north  window,  in  the  wintry 

weather,  — 

My  airy  oriel  on  the  river  shore,  — 
I  watch  the  sea-fowl  as  they  flock  together 


Less    fleshed    than    feathered  ;    bagged 

you  '11  find  him  such; 

His  virtue  silence;   his  employment  pleas 
ure  ; 

Xot  bad  to  look   at,  and  not   good    for 
much. 

What  of  our  duck  ?     He  has  some  high 
bred  cousins,  — 

His    Grace    the    Canvas-back,  My  Lord 
the  Brant,  — 


Where    late     the    boatman    flashed   his      Anas    and    Amcr,  —  both    served    up    by 


dripping  oar. 


dozens, 

At   Boston's    Rocker,    half-way    to    Xa- 
hant. 


The  gull,  high   floating,  like  a   sloop    un 
laden, 
Lets  the  loose  water  waft  him  as  it  will;   '   As  for  himself,  he  seems  alert  and  thriv- 

ihe     duck,    round-breasted    as     a    rustic  incr. 

maiden, 


Paddles  and  plunges,  busy,  busy  still. 


Grubs  up  a  living  somehow  —  what,  who 
knows  ? 


248 


THE  IRON  GATE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Crabs  ?   mussels  ?  weeds  ?  —  Look  quick  ! 

there  's  one  just  diving  ! 
Flop !  Splash  !  his  white  breast  glistens 
—  down  he  goes  ! 

And  while  he  's  under  — just  about  a  min 
ute — 

I  take  advantage  of  the  fact  to  say 
His  fishy  carcase  has  no  virtue  in  it 

The  gunning  idiot's  worthless  hire  to  pay. 

He  knows  you  !  "  sportsmen  "  from  subur 
ban  alleys, 

Stretched  under  seaweed  in  the  treacher 
ous  punt; 

Knows  every  lazy,  shiftless  lout  that  sallies 
Forth  to  waste  powder  —  as  he  says,  to 
"  hunt." 

I  watch  you  with  a  patient  satisfaction, 
Well  pleased   to  discount  your  predes 
tined  luck; 

The  float  that  figures  in  your  sly  transac 
tion 
Will  carry  back  a  goose,  but  not  a  duck. 

Shrewd  is  our  bird;  not  easy  to  outwit  him  ! 

Sharp  is  the  outlook  of  those   pin-head 

eyes; 
Still,  he  is  mortal  and  a  shot  may  hit  him, 

One  cannot  always  miss  him  if  he  tries. 

Look  !  there  's  a  young  one,  dreaming  not 

of  danger; 
Sees  a  flat  log  come  floating  down  the 

stream ; 
Stares    undismayed    upon     the     harmless 

stranger; 

Ah  !  were  all  strangers  harmless  as  they 
seem  ! 

Hdbet !  a  leaden  shower  his  breast  has  shat 
tered  ; 

Vainly  he  flutters,  not  again  to  rise; 
His  soft  white  plumes  along  the  waves  are 

scattered; 

Helpless  the  wing  that  braved  the  tem 
pest  lies. 

He  sees  his  comrades  high  above  him  flying 
To   seek   their   nests   among  the  island 

reeds ; 

Strong  is  their  flight;  all  lonely  he  is  lying 
Washed  by  the  crimsoned  water  as  he 
bleeds. 


0  Thou  who  carest  for  the  falling  spar 

row, 
Canst  Thou   the  sinless  sufferer's  pang 

forget  ? 
Or   is   thy   dread   account-book's  page  so 

narrow 
Its  one  long  column  scores  thy  creatures' 

debt? 

Poor     gentle    guest,    by     nature     kindly 

cherished, 
A  world  grows  dark  with  thee  in  blinding 

death; 

One    little  gasp  —  thy  universe    has   per 
ished, 

Wrecked  by  the  idle  thief  who  stole  thy 
breath  ! 

Is  this  the  whole  sad  story  of  creation, 
Lived  by  its  breathing  myriads  o'er  and 

o'er,  — 

One  glimpse  of  day,  then  black  annihila 
tion,  — 
A  sunlit  passage  to  a  sunless  shore  ? 

Give   back   our   faith,  ye  mystery-solving 

lynxes ! 
Robe   us   once  more  in  heaven-aspiring 

creeds  ! 
Happier   was   dreaming   Egypt    with    her 

sphinxes, 

The   stony   convent   with   its   cross  and 
beads ! 

How  often  gazing  where  a  bird  reposes, 
Rocked  on  the  wavelets,  drifting   with 
the  tide, 

1  lose  myself  in  strange  metempsychosis 

And  float  a  sea-fowl  at  a  sea-fowl's  side ; 

From  rain,  hail,  snow  in  feathery  mantle 

muffled, 
Clear-eyed,  strong-limbed,  with  keenest 

sense  to  hear 
My  mate  soft  murmuring,  who,  with  plumes 

unruffled, 
Where'er  I  wander  still  is  nestling  near; 

The  great  blue  hollow  like  a  garment  o'er 

me; 

Space  all  unmeasured,  unrecorded  time; 
While  seen  with  inward  eye  moves  on  be 
fore  me 

Thought's    pictured    train   in    wordless 
pantomime. 


AT   THE    PAPYRUS    CLUB 


249 


A    voice  recalls  me.  —  From  my   window 

turning 

I  find  myself  a  plumeless  biped  still ; 
No  beak,   no  claws,   no  sign  of  wings  dis 
cerning,  — 

In  fact  with  nothing   bird-like  but    my 
quill. 


ON    THE    THRESHOLD 

INTRODUCTION      TO     A     COLLECTION      OF 
POEMS    BY    DIFFERENT    AUTHORS 

Ax  usher  standing  at  the  door 

I  show  my  white  rosette ; 
A  smile  of  welcome,  nothing  more, 

Will  pay  my  trifling  debt; 
Why  should  I  bid  you  idly  wait 
Like  lovers  at  the  swinging  gate  ? 

Can  I  forget  the  wedding  guest  ? 

The  veteran  of  the  sea  ? 
In  vain  the  listener  smites  his  breast,  — 

"  There  was  a  ship,"  cries  he  ! 
Poor  fasting  victim,  stunned  and  pale, 
He  needs  must  listen  to  the  tale. 

He  sees  the  gilded  throng  within, 

The  sparkling  goblets  gleam, 
The  music  and  the  merry  din 

Through  every  window  stream, 
But  there  he  shivers  in  the  cold 
Till  all  the  crazy  dream  is  told. 

Not  mine  the  graybeard's  glittering  eye 

That  held  his  captive  still 
To  hold  my  silent  prisoners  by 

And  let  me  have  my  will; 
Nay,  /  were  like  the  three-years'  child, 
To  think  you  could  be  so  beguiled  ! 

My  verse  is  but  the  curtain's  fold 

That  hides  the  painted  scene, 
The  mist  by  morning's  ray  unrolled 

That  veils  the  meadow's  green, 
The  cloud  that  needs  must  drift  away 
To  show  the  rose  of  opening  day. 

See,  from  the  tinkling  rill  you  hear 

In  hollowed  palm  I  bring 
These  scanty  drops,  but  ah,  how  near 

The  founts  that  heavenward  spring  ! 
Thus,  open  wide  the  gates  are  thrown, 
And  founts  and  flowers  are  all  your  own  ! 


TO    GEORGE    PEABODY 

UANVERS,     1866 


|  BANKRUPT  !  our  pockets  inside  out ! 

Empty  of  words  to  speak  his  praises  ! 
|   Worcester  and  Webster  up  the  spout  ! 

Dead  broke  of  laudatory  phrases  ! 
i  Yet  why  with  flowery  speeches  tease, 

With  vain  superlatives  distress  him  ? 
Has  language  better  words  than  these  ? 

THE     FRIEND     OF    ALL     HIS     RACE,     GOD 
BLFSS  HIM  ! 

A  simple  prayer  —  but  words  more  sweet 
By  human  lips  were  never  uttered, 

Since  Adam  left  the  country  seat 

Where    angel    wings    around    him    flut 
tered. 

The  old  look  on  with  tear-dimmed  eyes, 
The  children  cluster  to  caress  him, 

And  every  voice  unbidden  cries, 

TlIE     FRIEND     OF     ALL     HIS     RACE,     GOD 
BLESS  HIM  ! 


AT    THE    PAPYRUS   CLUB 

A  LOVELY  show  for  eyes  to  sec 

I  looked  upon  this  morning,  — 
A  bright-lined,  feathered  company 

Of  nature's  own  adorning; 
But  ah  !  those  minstrels  would  not  sing 

A  listening  ear  while  I  lent,  — 
The  lark  sat  still  and  preened  his  wing, 

The  nightingale  was  silent; 
I  longed  for  what  they  gave  me  not  — 

Their  warblings  sweet  and  fluty, 
But  grateful  still  for  all  I  got 

I  thanked  them  for  their  beauty. 

A  fairer  vision  meets  my  vrew 

Of  Claras,  Margarets,  Marys, 
In  silken  robes  of  varied  hue, 

Like  bluebirds  and  canaries; 
The  roses  blush,  the  jewels  gleam, 

The  silks  and  satins  glisten, 
The  black  eyes  flash,  the  blue  eyes  beam, 

We  look  —  and  then  we  listen: 
Behold  the  flock  we  cage  to-night  — 

Was  ever  such  a  capture  ? 
To  see  them  is  a  pure  delight; 

To  hear  them  —  ah!  what  rapture  ! 


25° 


THE   IRON   GATE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Methinks  I  hear  Delilah's  laugh 

At  Samson  bound  in  fetters; 
"  We  captured  !  "  shrieks  each  lovelier  half, 

"  Men  think  themselves  our  betters  ! 
We  push  the  bolt,  we  turn  the  key 

On  warriors,  poets,  sages, 
Too  happy,  all  of  them,  to  be 

Locked  in  our  golden  cages  !  " 

Beware  !  the  boy  with  bandaged  eyes 

Has  flung  away  his  blinder; 
He  's  lost  his  mother  —  so  he  cries  — 

And  here  he  knows  he  '11  find  her: 
The  rogue  !  't  is  but  a  new  device,  — 

Look  out  for  flying  arrows 
Whene'er  the  birds  of  Paradise 

Are  perched  amid  the  sparrows! 


FOR   WHITTIER'S    SEVENTIETH 
BIRTHDAY 

DECEMBER    1 7,   1877 

I  BELIEVE  that  the  copies  of  verses  I've 

spun, 
Like  Scheherezade's  tales,  are  a  thousand 

and  one ; 
You  remember  the  story,  —  those  mornings 

in  bed, — 
'T  was  the  turn  of  a  copper,  —  a  tale  or  a 

head. 

A  doom  like  Scheherezade's  falls  upon  me 

In  a  mandate  as  stern  as  the  Sultan's  de 
cree: 

I  'ni  a  florist  in  verse,  and  what  would  peo 
ple  say 

If  I  came  to  a  banquet  without  my  bou 
quet  ? 

It  is  trying,  no  doubt,  when  the  company 

knows 
Just  the  look  and  the  smell  of  each  lily  and 

rose, 
The  green  of  each  leaf  in  the  sprigs  that  I 

bring, 
And  the  shape  of  the  bunch  and  the  knot 

of  the  string. 

Yes, — "the  style  is  the  man,"  and  the 
nib  of  one's  pen 

Makes  the  same  mark  at  twenty,  and  three 
score  and  ten; 


It  is  so  in  all  matters,  if  truth  may  be  told ; 
Let  one  look  at  the  cast  he  can  tell  you  the 
mould. 

How  we  all   know  each  other  !  no  use  in 

disguise ; 
Through  the  holes  in  the  mask  comes  the 

flash  of  the  eyes; 
We  can  tell  by  his  —  somewhat  —  each  one 

of  our  tribe, 
As  we  know  the  old  hat  which  we  cannot 

describe. 

Though  in  Hebrew,  in  Sanscrit,  in  Choctaw 

you  write, 
Sweet   singer  who  gave  us  the  Voices  of 

Night, 
Though  in  buskin  or  slipper  your  song  may 

be  shod, 
Or  the  velvety  verse  that  Evangeline  trod, 

We  shall  say,  "  You  can't  cheat  us,  —  we 
know  it  is  you," 

There  is  one  voice  like  that,  but  there  can 
not  be  two, 

Maestro^  whose  chant  like  the  dulcimer 
rings: 

And  the  woods  will  be  hushed  while  the 
nightingale  sings. 

And  he,  so  serene,  so  majestic,  so  true, 

Whose  temple  hypsethral  the  planets  shine 
through, 

Let  us  catch  but  five  words  from  that  mys 
tical  pen, 

We  should  know  our  one  sage  from  all 
children  of  men. 

And  lie  whose  bright  image  no  distance 
can  dim, 

Through  a  hundred  disguises  we  can't  mis 
take  him, 

Whose  play  is  all  earnest,  whose  wit  is  the 
edge 

(With  a  beetle  behind)  of  a  sham-splitting 
wedge. 

Do  you  know  whom  we  send  you,  Hidalgos 

of  Spain  ? 
Do  you  know  your  old  friends  when  you 

see  them  again  ? 

Hosea  was  Sancho  !  you  Dons  of  Madrid, 
But  Sancho  that  wielded  the  lance  of  the 

Cid! 


THE   COMING   ERA 


251 


And  the  wood-thrush  of  Essex,  —  you  know 

whom  I  mean, 
Whose  song  echoes  round  us  while  he  sits 

unseen, 
Whose  heart-throbs  of  verse  through  our 

memories  thrill 
Like  a  breath  from  the  wood,  like  a  breeze 

from  the  hill, 

So  fervid,  so  simple,  so  loving,  so  pure, 
We  hear  but  one  strain  and  our  verdict  is 

sure,  — 
Thee    cannot   elude   us,  —  no    further   we 

search, — 
'T  is  Holy  George  Herbert  cut  loose  from 

his  church  ! 

We   think   it  the   voice  of   a  seraph  that 

sings,  — 
Alas !    we    remember    that    angels    have 

wings,  — 

What  story  is  this  of  the  day  of  his  birth  ? 
Let  him  live  to  a  hundred  !  we  want  him 

on  earth  ! 

One  life  has  been  paid  him  (in  gold)  by 
the  sun  ; 

One  account  has  been  squared  and  another 
begun; 

But  he  never  will  die  if  he  lingers  be 
low 

Till  we  've  paid  him  in  love  half  the  bal 
ance  we  owe  ! 


TWO    SONNETS:    HARVARD 

At  the  meeting-  of  the  New  York  Harvard 
Club,  February  21,  ISIS. 

''CHRISTO    ET    ECCLESLE."    1700 

To     GOD'S     ANOINTED     AND     HIS     CHOSEN 
FLOCK  : 

So  ran  the  phrase  the  black-robed  con 
clave  chose 

To  guard  the  sacred  cloisters  that  arose 
Like  David's  altar  on  Moriah's  rock. 
Unshaken  still  those  ancient  arches  mock 
The  ram's-horn  summons   of  the  windy 

foes 
Who  stand  like  Joshua's  army  while  it 

blows 

And  wait  to  see  them  toppling  with  the 
shock. 


Christ    and   the    Church.     Their    church, 

whose  narrow  door 
Shut  out  the  many,  who  if  over  bold 
Like    hunted  wolves  were  driven  from 

the  fold, 
Bruised  with  the  flails  these  godly  zealots 

bore, 

Mindful  that  Israel's  altar  stood  of  old 
Where  echoed  once  Araunah's  threshing- 
floor. 

1643      "  VERITAS."       1878 

TRUTH:  So  the  frontlet's  older  legend  ran, 
On  the  brief  record's  opening  page  dis 
played  ; 
Not  yet  those  clear-eyed  scholars  were 

afraid 
Lest  the  fair  fruit  that  wrought  the  woe  of 

man 

By  far  Euphrates  —  where  our  sire  began 
His  search  for  truth,  and,  seeking,  was 

betrayed  — 
Might  work  new  treason  in  their  forest 

shade, 
Doubling   the    curse    that    brought    life's 

shortened  span. 

Nurse  of  the  future,  daughter  of  the  past, 
That  stern  phylactery  best  becomes  thee 

now: 
Lift   to   the    morning    star   thy   marble 

brow  ! 

Cast   thy  brave    truth   on   every    warring- 
blast  ! 
Stretch  thy  white  hand  to  that  forbidden 

bough, 
And  let  thine  earliest  symbol  be  thy  last  ! 


THE    COMING    ERA 

THEY  tell  us  that  the  Muse  is  soon  to  fly 

hence, 
Leaving  the  bowers  of  song   that   once 

were  dear, 

Her  robes  bequeathing  to  her  sister,  Science, 
The    groves  of   Pindus  for   the  axe   to 
clear. 

Optics  will    claim   the   wandering  eye    of 

fancy, 

Physics  will  grasp  imagination's  wings, 
Plain  fact  exorcise  fiction's  necromancy, 
The  workshop  hammer  where  the  min 
strel  sings. 


252 


THE   IRON   GATE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


No  more  with  laughter  at  Thalia's  frolics 
Our  eyes  shall  twinkle  till  the  tears  run 

down, 

But  in  her  place  the  lecturer  on  hydraulics 
Spout  forth   his   watery  science  to   the 
town. 

No  more  our  foolish  passions  and  affections 
The  tragic  Muse  with  mimic  grief  shall 

try, 

But,  nobler  far,  a  course  of  vivisections 
Teach  what  it  costs  a  tortured  brute  to 
die. 

The  unearthed  monad,  long  in  buried  rocks 

hid, 
Shall  tell  the  secret  whence   our   being 

came ; 
The  chemist  show  us  death  is  life's  black 

oxide, 

Left  when  the  breath  no  longer  fans  its 
flame. 

Instead  of  crack-brained  poets  in  their  at 
tics 
Filling  thin  volumes  with  their  flowery 

talk, 

There  shall  be  books  of  wholesome  mathe 
matics; 

The  tutor  with  his  blackboard  and  his 
chalk. 

No  longer  bards  with  madrigal  and  sonnet 
Shall  woo  to  moonlight  walks  the  rib 
boned  sex, 

But  side  by  side  the  beaver  and  the  bonnet 
Stroll,  calmly  pondering  on  some  prob 
lem's  x. 

The  sober  bliss  of  serious  calculation 

Shall  mock  the  trivial  joys  that  fancy 
drew, 

And,  oh,  the  rapture  of  a  solved  equation,  — 
One  selfsame  answer  on  the  lips  of  two  ! 

So  speak  in  solemn  tones  our  youthful  sages, 
Patient,  severe,  laborious,  slow,  exact, 

As  o'er  creation's  protoplasmic  pages 
They  browse  and  munch  the  thistle  crops 
of  fact. 

And  yet  we  've  sometimes  found  it  rather 

pleasant 

To  dream  again  the  scenes  that  Shake 
speare  drew,  — 


To   walk   the   hill-side   with   the  Scottish 

peasant 

Among  the  daisies  wet  with  morning's 
dew; 

To  leave  awhile  the  daylight  of  the  real, 
Led   by  the   guidance    of   the   master's 

hand, 

For  the  strange  radiance  of  the  far  ideal,  — 
"The  light   that  never  was   on   sea   or 
land." 

AVell,  Time  alone  can  lift  the  future's  cur 
tain,  — 
Science  may  teach  our  children  all  she 

knows, 
But  Love  will  kindle  fresh  young  hearts, 

't  is  certain, 

And  June  will  not  forget  her  blushing 
rose. 

And  so,  in  spite  of  all  that  Time  is  bring 
ing* — 

Treasures  of  truth  and  miracles  of  art, 
Beauty  and  Love  will  keep  the  poet  sing 
ing, 

And  song  still  live,  the  science  of  the 
heart. 

IN   RESPONSE 

Breakfast  at  the  Century  Club,  New  York, 
May,  1879. 

SUCH  kindness  !  the  scowl  of  a  cynic  would 

soften, 
His  pulse  beat  its  way  to  some  eloquent 

word, 
Alas  !  my  poor   accents  have   echoed   too 

often, 

Like  that  Pinafore  music  you  've  some 
of  you  heard. 

Do   you   know   me,   dear   strangers  —  the 

hundredth  time  comer 
At  banquets  and  feasts  since  the  days  of 

my  Spring  ? 
Ah  !  would  I  could  borrow  one  rose  of  my 

Summer, 
But  this  is  a  leaf  of  my  Autumn  I  bring. 

I  look  at  your  faces,  —  I  'm  sure  there  are 

some  from 
The  three-breasted  mother  I  count  as  my 


FOR  THE  MOORE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION 


You   think   you    remember  the  place  you 

have  come  from, 

But  how  it  has  changed  in  the  years  that 
have  flown  ! 

Unaltered,    't  is   true,    is  the  hall  we  call 

"  Funnel," 
Still    fights    the    "  Old    South"    in    the 

battle  for  life, 
But  we  've  opened   our  door  to  the  West 

through  the  tunnel, 

And  we  've  cut  off  Fort  Hill  with   our 
Amazon  knife. 

You  should  see  the  new  Westminster  Bos 
ton  has  builded,  — 
Its  mansions,  its  spires,  its  museums  of 

arts,  — 
You  should  see  the  great   dome  we  have 

gorgeously  gilded,  — 
'T  is  the  light  of  our  eyes,  't  is  the  joy  of 
our  hearts. 

When   first  in  his  path  a  young  asteroid 

found  it, 
As  he  sailed  through  the  skies  with  the 

stars  in  his  wake, 
He    thought   't  was    the    sun,    and    kept 

circling  around  it 

Till  Edison  signalled,  "  You  've  made  a 
mistake." 

We  are  proud  of  our  city,  —  her  fast-grow 
ing  figure, 
The  warp  and  the  woof  of  her  brain  and 

her  hands,  — 
But  we  're  proudest  of  all  that  her  heart 

has  grown  bigger, 

And  warms  with  fresh  blood  as  her  gir 
dle  expands. 

One  lesson  the  rubric  of  conflict  has  taught 

her: 

Though  parted  awhile    by    war's  earth- 
rending  shock, 
The   lines   that  divide    us    are    written  in 

water, 

The  love  that  unites  us  cut  deep  in  the 
rock. 

As  well  might  the  Judas  of  treason  en 
deavor 

To  write  his  black  name  on  the  disk  of 
the  sun 

As  try  the  bright  star-wreath  that  binds  us 
to  sever 


And  blot  the  fair  legend  of  "Many  in 
One." 

We  love  YOU,  tall   sister,  the  stately,  the 

splendid,  — 
The  banner  of  empire  floats  high  on  your 

towers, 

Yet   ever   in  welcome  your  arms  are    ex 
tended,  — 
We  share  in  your  splendors,  your  glory 


Yes,  Queen  of  the   Continent  !     All  of  us 

own  thee, — 
The  gold-freighted  argosies  flock  at  thy 

call, 
The  naiads,   the  sea-nymphs  have  met   to 

enthrone  thee, 

But  the  Broadway  of  one  is  the  Highway 
of  all ! 

I  thank  you.     Three  words  that  can  hardly 

be  mended, 

Though   phrases    on    phrases   their   elo 
quence  pile, 
If  you   hear  the  heart's    throb  with   their 

eloquence  blended, 

And  read  all  they   mean  in  a  sunshiny 
smile. 


FOR  THE  MOORE  CENTENNIAL 
CELEBRATION 

MAY     28,    1879 
I 

ENCHANTER   of     Erin,    whose    magic   has 

bound  us, 
Thy    wand    for  one  moment  we   fondly 

would  claim. 
Entranced  while  it  summons  the  phantoms 

around  us 

That  blush  into  life  at  the  sound  of  thy 
name. 

The  tell-tales  of  memory  wake  from  their 

slumbers,  — 
I    hear    the   old    song   with    its    tender 

refrain, — 
What  passion  lies  hid  in  those  honey-voiced 

numbers  ! 

What  perfume  of  youth  in  each  exquisite 
strain  ! 


254 


THE  IRON  GATE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


The  home  of  rny  childhood  comes  back  as 

a  vision,  — 
Hark  !     Hark  !     A  soft  chord  from  its 

song-haunted  room,  — 
'T  is  a  morning  of  May,  when  the  air   is 

Elysian,  — 

The   syringa   in   bud   and    the   lilac   in 
bloom,  — 

We  are  clustered  around  the  "  dementi  " 

piano,  — 
There  were  six  of  us  then,  —  there  are 

two  of  us  now,  — 
She  is  singing  —  the  girl   with   the  silver 

soprano  — 

How  "  The  Lord  of  the  Valley  "  was  false 
to  his  vow; 


II 

The  veil  for  her  bridal  young  Summer  is 

weaving 

In  her  azure-domed  hall  with  its  tapes 
tried  floor, 
And  Spring  the  last  tear-drop  of  May-dew 

is  leaving 

On  the  daisy  of  Burns  and  the  shamrock 
of  Moore. 

How  like,  how  unlike,  as  we  view  them  to 
gether, 
The  song  of  the  minstrels  whose  record 

we  scan,  — 
One  fresh  as  the  breeze  blowing  over  the 

heather, 

One  sweet  as  the  breath  from  an  oda 
lisque's  fan ! 


Let    Erin    remember"  the   echoes  are  j 

calling; 

Through    "The    Vale   of    Avoca  "  the  j  Ah,  passion  can  glow  mid  a  palace's  splendor; 

waters  are  rolled;  The  cage  does  not  alter  the  song  of  the 


"  The  Exile  "  laments  while  the  night-dews 

are  falling; 

"  The  Morning  of  Life  "  dawns  again  as 
of  old. 

But  ah  !  those  warm  love-songs   of   fresh 

adolescence  ! 
Around  us  such  raptures  celestial  they 

flung 
That  it  seemed  as  if  Paradise  breathed  its 

quintessence 

Through   the   seraph-toned   lips   of   the 
maiden  that  sung  ! 

Long  hushed  are  the  chords  that  my  boy 
hood  enchanted 
As  when  the  smooth  wave  by  the  angel 

was  stirred, 
Yet    still    with    their    music    is    memory 

haunted, 

And  oft  in  my  dreams  are  their  melodies 
heard. 


bird; 
And  the  curtain  of  silk  has  known  whispers 

as  tender 

As  ever  the   blossoming  hawthorn  has 
heard. 

No  fear  lest  the  step  of  the  soft-slippered 

Graces 
Should  fright  the  young  Loves  from  their 

warm  little  nest, 
For  the  heart  of  a  queen,  under  jewels  and 

laces, 

Beats  time  with  the  pulse  in  the  peasant 
girl's  breast ! 

Thrice  welcome  each  gift  of  kind  Nature's 

bestowing  ! 
Her  fountain  heeds  little  the  goblet  we 

hold; 

Alike,  when  its  musical  waters  are  flowing, 
The  shell  from  the  seaside,  the  chalice 
of  gold. 


I  feel  like  the  priest  to  his  altar  return-  The  twins  of  the  lyre  to  her  voices  had 

ing, —  listened; 

The  crowd  that  was  kneeling  no  longer  Both  laid  their  best  gifts  upon  Liberty's 

is  there,  shrine; 

The  flame  has  died  down,  but  the  brands  For  Coila's  loved  minstrel  the  holly-wreath 

are  still  burning,  glistened; 

And  sandal  and  cinnamon   sweeten  the  For  Erin's  the  rose  and  the  myrtle  en- 
air,  twine. 


WELCOME   TO   THE   CHICAGO    COMMERCIAL   CLUB        255 


And   while   the  fresh  blossoms  of  summer 

are  braided 
For     the     sea-girdled,    stream-silvered, 

lake- jewelled  isle, 
While  her  mantle  of  verdure  is  woven  uii- 

faclecl, 

While  Shannon  and  Liffey  shall  dimple 
and  smile, 

The  land  whore  the  staff  of  Saint  Patrick 

was  planted, 
Where  the  shamrock  grows  green  from 

the  cliffs  to  the  shore, 

The  land  of  fair  maidens  and  heroes  un 
daunted, 

Shall  wreathe  her  bright  harp  with  the 
garlands  of  Moore  ! 


TO  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE 

APRIL    4,   I.SSo 

I  BRING  the  simplest  pledge  of  love, 

Friend  of  my  earlier  days; 
Mine  is  the  hand  without  the  glove, 

The  heart-beat,  not  the  phrase. 

How  few  still  breathe  this  mortal  air 
We  called  by  school-boy  names  ! 

You  still,  whatever  robe  you  wear, 
To  me  are  always  James. 

That  name  the  kind  apostle  bore 
Who  shames  the  sullen  creeds, 

Not  trusting  less,  but  loving  more, 
And  showing  faith  by  deeds. 

What    blending    thoughts    our    memories 
share  ! 

What  visions  yours  and  mine 
Of  May-days  in  whose  morning  air 

The  dews  were  golden  wine, 

Of  vistas  bright  with  opening  day, 

Whose  all-awakening  sun 
Showed  in  life's  landscape,  far  away, 

The  summits  to  be  won  ! 

The  heights  are  gained.     Ah,  say  not  so 

For  him  who  smiles  at  time, 
Leaves  his  tired  comrades  down  below, 

And  onlv  lives  to  climb  ! 


His  labors,  —  will  they  ever  cease, — 
With  hand  and  tongue  and  pen  ? 

Shall  wearied  Nature  ask  release 
At  threescore  years  and  ten  V 

Our  strength  the  clustered  seasons  tax,  — 

For  him  new  life  they  mean; 
Like  rods  around  the  lietor's  axe 

They  keep  him  bright  and  keen. 

The  wise,  the  brave,  the  strong,  we  know,  - 
We  mark  them  here  or  there, 

But  he,  —  we  roll  our  eyes,  and  lo  ! 
We  find  him  everywhere  ! 

With  truth's  bold  cohorts,  or  alone, 
lie  strides  through  error's  field; 

His  lance  is  ever  manhood's  own, 
His  breast  is  woman's  shield. 

Count  not  his  years  while  earth  has  need 
Of  souls  that  Heaven  inflames 

With  sacred  zeal  to  save,  to  lead,  — 
Long  live  our  dear  Saint  James  ! 


WELCOME     TO      THE     CHICAGO 
COMMERCIAL  CLUB 

JANUARY    14,   iSSo 

CHICAGO   sounds   rough  to  the   maker  of 

verse; 
One  comfort  we  have  —  Cincinnati  sounds 

worse ; 

If  we  only  were  licensed  to  say  Chicago"  ! 
But  Worcester  and  Webster  won't  let  us, 

you  know. 

Xo  matter,  we   songsters  must  sing  as  we 

can; 
We  can  make  some  nice  couplets  with  Lake 

Michigan, 
And  what  more  resembles  a  nightingale's 

voice, 
Than  the  oily  trisyllable,  sweet  Illinois  ? 

Your  waters  are  fresh,  while  our  harbor  is 

salt, 
But  we  know  you  can't  help  it  —  it  is  n't 

your  fault; 

Our  city  is  old  and  your  city  is  new, 
But  the  railroad  men  tell  us  we  're  greener 

than  you. 


256 


THE  IRON  GATE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


You  have  seen  our  gilt  dome,  and  no  doubt 

you  've  been  told 
That  the  orbs  of  the  universe  round  it  are 

rolled; 
But  I  '11  own  it  to  you,  and  I  ought  to  know 

best, 
That  this  isn't  quite  true  of  all  stars   of 

the  West. 

You  '11  go  to  Mount  Auburn,  —  we  '11  show 

you  the  track,  — 
And  can  stay  there,  —  unless  you  prefer  to 

come  back; 
And  Bunker's  tall  shaft  you  can  climb  if 

you  will, 
But  you  '11  puff  like  a  paragraph  praising 

a  pill. 

You  must  see  —  but  you  have  seen  —  our 
old  Faneuil  Hall, 

Our  churches,  our  school- rooms,  our  sam 
ple-rooms,  all; 

And,  perhaps,  though  the  idiots  must  have 
their  jokes, 

You  have  found  our  good  people  much  like 
other  folks. 

There  are  cities  by  rivers,  by  lakes,  and  by 

seas, 
Each  as  full  of  itself  as  a  cheese-mite  of 

cheese ; 
And  a  city  will  brag  as  a  game-cock  will 

crow: 
Don't  your   cockerels    at    home  —  just   a 

little,  you  know  ? 

But  we  '11  crow  for  you  now  —  here  's  a 
health  to  the  boys, 

Men,  maidens,  and  matrons  of  fair  Illi 
nois, 

And  the  rainbow  of  friendship  that  arches 
its  span 

From  the  green  of  the  sea  to  the  blue 
Michigan  ! 


AMERICAN   ACADEMY  CENTEN 
NIAL   CELEBRATION 

MAY    26,    l88o 

SIRE,  son,  and   grandson;  so  the   century 

glides; 

Three   lives,   three   strides,   three   foot 
prints  in  the  sand; 


Silent  as  midnight's  falling  meteor  slides 
Into  the  stillness  of  the  far-off  land; 
How  dim   the   space   its  little   arc  has 
spanned  ! 

See  on  this   opening  page  the   names  re 
nowned 
Tombed  in  these  records  on  our  dusty 

shelves, 
Scarce    on   the   scroll   of    living   memory 

found, 
Save    where   the   wail-eyed   antiquarian 

delves; 

Shadows   they  seem;   ah,  what  are  we 
ourselves  ? 

Pale  ghosts   of   Bowdoin,  Winthrop,  Wil- 

lard,  West, 

Sages  of  busy  brain  and  wrinkled  brow, 
Searchers  of  Nature's  secrets  unconfessed, 
Asking  of  all  things  Whence  and  Why 

and  How  — 

What  problems  meet  your  larger  vision 
now? 

Has   Gannett   tracked   the   wild  Aurora's 
path  ? 

Has  Bowdoin  found  his  all-surrounding 

sphere  ? 

What   question   puzzles    ciphering    Philo 
math  ? 

Could  Williams  make  the  hidden  causes 
clear 

Of  the  Dark  Day  that  filled  the   land 
with  fear  ? 

Dear  ancient  school-boys  !     Nature  taught 

to  them 
The    simple    lessons    of    the    star   and 

flower, 
Showed   them   strange   sights;   how   on   a 

single  stem,  — 
Admire      the     marvels      of      Creative 

Power  !  — 
Twin  apples   grew,  one   sweet,  the   other 

sour ; 

How  from  the  hill-top  where  our  eyes  be 
hold 
In  even  ranks  the  plumed  and  bannered 

maize 

Range  its  long  columns,  in  the  days  of  old 
The  live  volcano  shot  its  angry  blaze,  — 
Dead  since  the  showers  of  Noah's  watery 
days; 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY 


257 


Plow,  when  the  lightning  split  the   mighty 

rock, 
The   spreading   fury   of   the    shaft    was 

spent  ! 

How  the  young  scion  joined  the  alien  stock, 
And  when  and  where  the  homeless  swal 
lows  went 
To  pass  the  winter  of  their  discontent. 

Scant  were  the  gleanings  in  those  years  of 

dearth ; 
No    Cuvier   yet    had   clothed  the    fossil 

bones 
That  slumbered,  waiting  for  their  second 

birth; 

No  Lyell  read  the  legend  of  the  stones; 
Science     still    pointed     to     her    empty 
thrones. 

Dreaming   of   orbs   to   eyes  of  earth    un 
known, 
Herschel    looked    heavenwards    in    the 

starlight  pale; 

Lost  in  those  awful  depths  he  trod  alone, 
Laplace    stood   mute    before    the    lifted 

veil; 

While    home-bred    Humboldt    trimmed 
his  toy  ship's  sail. 

No  mortal  feet   these  loftier  heights    had 
gained 

Whence  the  wide  realms  of  Nature  we 

descry; 

In    vain    their   eyes   our   longing   fathers 
strained 

To  scan  with  wondering  gaze  the  sum 
mits  high 

That   far    beneath  their  children's  foot 
paths  lie. 

Smile  at  their  first  small    ventures  as  we 
may, 

The  school-boy's  copy  shapes  the  schol 
ar's  hand, 

Their  grateful  memory  fills  our  hearts  to 
day; 

Brave,  hopeful,  wise,  this  bower  of  peace 
they  planned, 

While  war's  dread  ploughshare  scarred 
the  suffering  land. 

Child   of   our   children's  children  yet  un 
born, 

When  on  this  yellow  page  you  turn  your 
eyes, 


Where  the  brief  record   of  this   May-day 

morn 

In  phrase  antique  and  faded  letters  lies, 
How  vague,  how  pale  our  Hitting  ghosts 

will  rise  ! 

Yet  in  our  veins  the  blood  ran  warm  and 

red, 
For  us  the  fields  were  green,  the  skies 

were  blue, 
Though  from  our  dust  the  spirit  long  has 

fied, 
We    lived,    we    loved,    we    toiled,     we 

dreamed  like  you, 

Smiled   at  our    sires  and   thought    how 
much  we  knew. 

Oh  might  our  spirits  for  one  hour  return, 
When  the  next  century  rounds  its  hun 
dredth  ring, 
All   the  strange  secrets  it   shall  teach   to 

learn, 
To  hear  the  larger  truths  its  years  shall 

bring, 

Its  wiser  sages  talk,  its  sweeter  minstrels 
sin"1 ! 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY 

Read  at  the   Centennial  Celebration  of  the 
foundation  of  Phillips  Academy,  Andover. 

1778-1878 

THESE  hallowed  precincts,  long  to  mem 
ory  dear, 

Smile  with  fresh  welcome  as  our  feet  draw 
near ; 

With  softer  gales  the  opening  leaves  are 
fanned, 

With  fairer  hues  the  kindling  flowers  ex 
pand, 

The  rose-bush  reddens  with  the  blush  of 
June, 

The  groves  are  vocal  with  their  minstrels' 
tune, 

The  mighty  elm,  beneath  whose  arching 
shade 

The  wandering  children  of  the  forest 
strayed, 

Greets  the  bright  morning  in  its  bridal 
dress, 

And  spreads  its  arms  the  gladsome  dawn 
to  bless. 


258 


THE   IRON   GATE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Is  it  an  idle  dream  that  nature  shares 
Our  joys,  our  griefs,  our  pastimes,  and  our 

cares  ? 
Is  there  no  summons  when,  at  morning's 

call, 

The  sable  vestments  of  the  darkness  fall  ? 
Does  not  meek  evening's  low-voiced   A  ve 

blend 

With  the  soft  vesper  as  its  notes  ascend  ? 
Is  there  no  whisper  in  the  perfumed  air 
When  the  sweet  bosom  of  the  rose  is  bare  ? 
Does  not  the  sunshine  call  us  to  rejoice  ? 
Is  there  no  meaning  in  the  storm-cloud's 

voice  ? 
No   silent   message   when  from   midnight 

skies 
Heaven  looks  upon  us  with  its  myriad  eyes  ? 

Or  shift   the   mirror;    say   our   dreams 

diffuse 
O'er  life's   pale   landscape   their   celestial 

hues, 
Lend   heaven   the   rainbow   it   has    never 

known, 

And  robe  the  earth  in  glories  not  its  own, 
Sing  their  own  music  in  the  summer  breeze, 
With   fresher    foliage   clothe   the    stately 

trees, 

Stain  the  June  blossoms  with  a  livelier  dye 
And  spread  a  bluer  azure  on  the  sky,  — 
Blest  be  the  power  that  works  its  lawless 

will 
And   finds   the    weediest   patch   an   Eden 

still; 

No  walls  so  fair  as  those  our  fancies  build,  — 
No   views   so  bright   as  those  our  visions 

gild! 

So  ran  my  lines,  as  pen  and  paper  met, 
The  truant  goose-quill  travelling  like  Plan- 

chette ; 

Too  ready  servant,  whose  deceitful  ways 
Full  many  a  slipshod  line,  alas  !  betrays; 
Hence  of  the  rhyming  thousand  not  a  few 
Have  builded  worse  —  a  great  deal  —  than 

they  knew. 

What  need  of  idle  fancy  to  adorn 
Our   mother's  birthplace   on  her  birthday 

morn  ? 

Hers  are  the  blossoms  of  eternal  spring, 
From  these  green  boughs  her  new-fledged 

birds  take  wing, 

These  echoes  hear  their  earliest  carols  sung, 
In  this  old  nest  the  brood  is  ever  young. 


If  some  tired  wanderer,  resting  from  his 

flight, 

Amid  the  gay  young  choristers  alight, 
These  gather  round  him,  mark  his  faded 

plumes 

That   faintly  still   the  far-off   grove   per 
fumes, 

And  listen,  wondering  if  some  feeble  note 
Yet  lingers,  quavering  in  his  weary  throat : — 
I,  whose  fresh  voice  yon  red-faced  temple 

knew, 

What  tune  is  left  me,  fit  to  sing  to  you  ? 
Ask  not  the  grandeurs  of  a  labored  song, 
But  let  my  easy  couplets  slide  along; 
Much  could  I  tell  you  that  you  know  too 

well; 

Much  I  remember,  but  I  will  not  tell; 
Age  brings  experience ;  graybeards  oft  are 

wise, 
But  oh  !  how  sharp  a  youngster's  ears  and 

eyes  ! 

My  cheek  was  bare  of  adolescent  down 
When  first  I  sought  the  academic  town; 
Slow  rolls  the  coach  along  the  dusty  road, 
Big  with  its  filial  and  parental  load; 
The   frequent   hills,  the  lonely  woods  are 

past, 
The  school-boy's  chosen   home  is  reached 

at  last. 

I  see  it  now,  the  same  unchanging  spot, 
The  swinging  gate,  the  little  garden  plot, 
The  narrow  yard,  the  rock  that  made  its 

floor, 
The  flat,  pale  house,  the  knocker-garnished 

door, 

The  small,  trim  parlor,  neat,  decorous,  chill, 
The   strange,  new  faces,   kind,  but  grave 

and  still; 
Two,  creased  with  age,  —  or  what  I  then 

called  age,  — 

Life's  volume  open  at  its  fiftieth  page; 
One,  a  shy  maiden's,  pallid,  placid,  sweet 
As  the  first  snowdrop,  which  the  sunbeams 

greet; 
One,  the   last   nursling's;  slight  she  was, 

and  fair, 
Her  smooth  white  forehead  warmed  with 

auburn  hair; 
Last   came   the   virgin   Hymen   long  had 

spared, 
Whose  daily  cares  the  grateful  household 

shared, 
Strong,    patient,   humble;  her  substantial 

frame 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY 


Stretched  the  chaste  draperies  I  forbear  to 

name. 

Brave,  but  with  effort,  had  the  school 
boy  come 

To  the  cold  comfort  of  a  stranger's  home; 
How  like  a  dagger  to  my  sinking  heart 
Came  the  dry  summons,  "  It  is  time  to  part; 
Good-by  !  "     "  Goo — ood-by  !  "    one    fond 

maternal  kiss.   .  .   . 
Homesick  as  death  !  Was  ever  pang  like 

this?   .  .  . 

Too  young  as  yet  with  willing  feet  to  stray 
From  the  tame  fireside,  glad  to  get  away,  — 
Too  old  to  let  my  watery  grief  appear,  — 
And  what  so  bitter  as  a  swallowed  tear  ! 
One    figure    still   my   vagrant   thoughts 

pursue ; 

First  boy  to  greet  me,  Ariel,  where  are  you  ? 
Imp  of  all  mischief,  heaven  alone  knows  how 
You  learned  it  all,  —  are  you  an  angel  now, 
Or  tottering  gently  down  the  slope  of  years, 
Your  face  grown  sober  in  the  vale  of  tears  ? 
Forgive  my  freedom  if  you  are  breathing 

still; 

If  in  a  happier  world,  I  know  you  will. 
You  were  a  school-boy  —  what  beneath  the 

sun 
So  like  a  monkey  ?     I  was  also  one. 

Strange,  sure  enough,  to  see  what  curi 
ous  shoots 

The  nursery  raises  from  the  study's  roots  ! 
In  those  old  days  the  very,  very  good 
Took  up  more  room  —  a  little  —  than  they 

should ; 
Something  too  much  one's  eyes  encountered 

then 

Of  serious  youth  and  funeral- visaged  men; 
The  solemn  elders  saw  life's  mournful 

half,  — 
Heaven  sent  this  boy,  whose  mission  was  to 

laugh, 

Drollest  of  buffos,  Nature's  odd  protest, 
A  catbird  squealing  in  a  blackbird's  nest. 
Kind,  faithful  Nature  !     While  the  sour- 
eyed  Scot  — 

Her  cheerful  smiles  forbidden  or  forgot  — 
Talks  only  of  his  preacher  and  his  kirk,  — 
Hears  five-hour  sermons  for  his  Sunday 

work,  — 

Praying  and  fasting  till  his  meagre  face 
Gains  its  due  length,  the  genuine  sign  of 

grace, — 

An  Ayrshire  mother  in  the  land  of  Knox 
Her  embryo  poet  in  his  cradle  rocks;  — 
Nature,  long  shivering  in  her  dim  eclipse, 


Steals  in  a  sunbeam  to  those  baby  lips; 
So  to  its  home  her  banished  smile  returns, 
And  Scotland  sweetens  with  the   song  of 
Burns  ! 

The  morning  came ;  I  reached  the  classic 

hall; 
A  clock-face    eyed   me,  staring   from  the 

wall; 

Beneath  its  hands  a  printed  line  I  read: 
YOUTH  is  LIFE'S  SEED-TIME:  so  the  clock- 
face  said: 
Some     took    its     counsel,  as     the     sequel 

showed,  — 
Sowed,  —  their  wild  oats,  —  and  reaped  as 

they  had  sowed. 

How  all  comes  back  !  the  upward  slant 
ing  floor,  — 
The  masters'  thrones  that  flank  the  central 

door,  — 

The  long,  outstretching  alleys  that  divide 
The  rows  of   desks   that  stand    on    either 

side,  — 

The  staring  boys,  a  face  to  every  desk, 
Bright,  dull,  pale,  blooming,  common,  pic 
turesque. 
Grave  is  the  Master's  look;  his  forehead 

wears 
Thick  rows  of  wrinkles,  prints  of  worrying 

cares; 

Uneasy  lie  the  heads  of  all  that  rule, 
His  most  of  all  whose  kingdom  is  a  school. 
Supreme  he  sits;  before  the  awful  frown 
That  bends  his  brows  the  boldest  eye  goes 

down ; 
Not   more    submissive    Israel    heard    and 

saw 

At  Sinai's  foot  the  Giver  of  the  Law. 
Less  stern  he  seems,  who  sits  in  equal 

state 
On  the  twin  throne  and  shares  the  empire's 

weight; 

Around  his  lips  the  subtle  life  that  plays 
Steals  quaintly    forth    in    many    a    jesting 

phrase ; 

A  lightsome  nature,  not  so  hard  to  chafe, 
Pleasant  when  pleased;  rough-handled,  not 

so  safe; 

Some  tingling  memories  vaguely  I  recall, 
But  to  forgive  him.     God  forgive  us  all ! 

One  yet  remains,  whose  well-remembered 

name 

Pleads    in   my   grateful    heart    its   tender 
claim; 


260 


THE   IRON   GATE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


His  was  the   charm   magnetic,  the  bright 

look 
That  sheds  its   sunshine  on   the   dreariest 

book; 

A  loving  soul  to  every  task  he  brought 
That   sweetly   mingled   with   the   lore    he 

taught; 

Sprung  from  a  saintly  race  that  never  could 
From  youth  to  age  be  anything  but  good, 
His  few  brief  years  in  holiest  labors  spent, 
Earth  lost  too  soon  the  treasure  heaven  had 

lent. 

Kindest  of  teachers,  studious  to  divine 
Some  hint  of  promise  in  my  earliest  line, 
These  faint  and  faltering  words  thou  canst 

not  hear 
Throb  from  a  heart  that  holds  thy  memory 

dear. 

As  to  the  traveller's  eye  the  varied  plain 
Shows  through  the  window  of   the   flying 

train, 

A  mingled  landscape,  rather  felt  than  seen, 
A  gravelly  bank,  a  sudden  flash  of  green, 
A  tangled  wood,  a  glittering  stream  that 

flows 
Through  the  cleft  summit  where  the  cliff 

once  rose, 

All  strangely  blended  in  a  hurried  gleam, 
Rock,  wood,  waste,  meadow,  village,  hill 
side,  stream, — 

So,  as  we  look  behind  us,  life  appears, 
Seen  through  the  vista  of  our  bygone  years. 
Yet  in  the  dead  past's  shadow-filled  do 
main, 

Some  vanished  shapes  the  hues  of  life  re 
tain  ; 

Unbidden,  oft,  before  our  dreaming  eyes 
From  the  vague  mists  in  memory's  path 

they  rise. 

So  comes  his  blooming  image  to  my  view, 
The  friend  of  joyous  days  when  life  was 

new, 
Hope  yet  untamed,  the  blood  of  youth  un- 

chilled, 

No  blank  arrear  of  promise  unfulfilled, 
Life's  flower  yet  hidden  in  its  sheltering 

fold, 

Its  pictured  canvas  yet  to  be  unrolled. 
His  the  frank  smile  I  vainly  look  to  greet, 
His   the   warm   grasp   my   clasping   hand 

should  meet; 
How  would  our  lips  renew  their  school-boy 

talk, 
Our  feet  retrace  the  old  familiar  walk  ! 


For  thee  no  more  earth's  cheerful  morning 

shines 
Through  the  green  fringes  of   the  tented 

pines; 
Ah  me  !  is  heaven  so  far  thou  canst  not 

hear, 

Or  is  thy  viewless  spirit  hovering  near, 
A  fair  young  presence,  bright  with  morn 

ing's  glow, 

The  fresh-cheeked  boy  of  fifty  years  ago  ? 
Yes,  fifty  years,  with  all  their  circling 

suns, 

Behind  them  all  my  glance  reverted  runs; 
Where  now  that  time  remote,  its  griefs,  its 


Where  are  its  gray-haired  men,  its  bright- 

haired  boys  ? 
Where  is  the  patriarch  time  could  hardly 

tire,  — 
The     good     old,      wrinkled,     immemorial 

"  squire  "  ? 
(An  honest  treasurer,  like  a  black-plumed 

swan, 

Not  every  day  our  eyes  may  look  upon.) 
Where  the  tough  champion  who,  with  Cal 

vin's  sword, 

In  wordy  conflicts  battled  for  the  Lord  ? 
Where   the   grave    scholar,   lonely,   calm, 

austere, 
Whose  voice  like  music  charmed  the  listen 

ing  ear, 
Whose  light  rekindled,  like  the  morning 

star 

Still  shines  upon  us  through  the  gates  ajar  ? 
Where  the   still,  solemn,  weary,  sad-eyed 

man, 
Whose  care-worn  face  my  wandering  eyes 

would  scan,  — 

His  features  wasted  in  the  lingering  strife 
With  the  pale  foe  that  drains  the  student's 

life? 
Where  my  old  friend,  the  scholar,  teacher, 

saint, 
Whose  creed,  some  hinted,  showed  a  speck 

of  taint; 

He  broached  his  own  opinion,  which  is  not 
Lightly  to  be  forgiven  or  forgot; 
Some  riddle's  point,  —  I  scarce  remember 

now,  — 

Homoz-,  perhaps,  where  they  said  homo-ou. 
(If  the  unlettered  greatly  wish  to  know 
Where  lies  the  difference  betwixt  oi  and  o, 
Those  of  the  curious  who  have  time  may 

search 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY 


261 


Among    the    stale    conundrums    of    their 

church.) 

Beneath  his  roof  his  peaceful  life  I  shared, 
And  for  his  modes  of  faith  I  little  cared,  — 
I,  taught  to  judge  men's  dogmas  by  their 

deeds, 
Long  ere  the  days  of  india-rubber  creeds. 

Why  should  we  look  one  common  faith 

"to  find, 

Where  one  in  every  score  is  color-blind  ? 
If  here  on  earth  they  know  not  red  from 

green, 

Will  they  see  better  into  tilings  unseen  ! 
Once   more    to   time's   old  graveyard  I 

return 
And     scrape     the    moss    from    memory's 

pictured  urn. 
Who,  in  these  days  when  all  things  go  by 

steam, 
Recalls  the  stage-coach  with  its  four-horse 

team  ? 

Its  sturdy  driver,  —  who  remembers  him  ? 
Or  the  old  landlord,  saturnine  and  grim, 
Who  left  our  hill-top  for  a  new  abode 
And  reared  his  sign- post  farther  down  the 

road  ? 

Still  in  the  waters  of  the  dark  Shawshine 
Do    the    young  bathers    splash    and   think 

they  're  clean  ? 

Do  pilgrims  find  their  way  to  Indian  Ridge, 
Or  journey  onward  to  the  far-off  bridge, 
And  bring  to  younger  ears  the  story  back 
Of  the  broad  stream,  the  mighty  Merrimac  ? 
Are  there  still  truant  feet  that  stray  beyond 
These     circling     bounds     to     Pomp's     or 

Haggett's  Pond, 

Or  where  the  legendary  name  recalls 
The  forest's  earlier  tenant,  —  "  Dcerjump 

Falls  "  ? 

Yes,  every  nook  these  youthful  feet  ex 
plore, 
Just   as   our   sires   and   grandsires  did  of 

yore ; 
So  all  life's  opening   paths,  where  nature 

led 
Their  father's  feet,  the  children's  children 

tread. 
Roll  the    round   century's   fivescore  years 

away, 

Call  from  our  storied  past  that  earliest  day 
When  great  Eliphalet  (I  can  see  him 

now,  — 

Big  name,  big  frame,  big  voice,  and  beet 
ling  brow), 


Then  young  Eliphalet,  —  ruled  the  rows  of 

boys 

In   homespun    gray   or   old-world    cordu 
roys,  — 
And  save  for  fashion's  whims,  the  benches 

show 
The    selfsame    youths,  the    very  boys    we 

know. 
Time  works  strange  marvels:  since  I  trod 

the  green 
And  swung  the  gates,  what  wonders  I  have 

seen  ! 
But  come  what  will, — the  sky  itself  may 

fall,  — 
As  things  of  course  the  boy  accepts  them 

all. 
The  prophet's  chariot,  drawn  by  steeds  of 

flame, 

For  daily  use  our  travelling  millions  claim; 
The    face    we  love  a  sunbeam  makes  our 


No  more  the  surgeon  hears  the  sufferer's 

groan; 
What  unwrit  histories  wrapped  in  darkness 

lay 
Till  shovelling  Schliemann  bared  them  to 

the  day  ! 
Your  Richelieu  says,  and  says  it  well,  my 

lord, 
The  pen  is  (sometimes)  mightier  than  the 

sword; 

Great  is  the  goosequill,  say  we  all;  Amen  ! 
Sometimes  the  spade  is  mightier   than  the 

pen; 
It  shows  where  Babel's  terraced  walls  were 

raised, 
The    slabs   that    cracked   when   Nimrod's 

palace  blazed, 

Unearths  Mycenre,  rediscovers  Troy,  — 
Calmly  he  listens,  that  immortal  boy. 
A   new    Prometheus   tips   our   wands  with 

fire, 

A  mightier  Orpheus  strains  the  whispering- 
wire, 

Whose  lightning  thrills  the  lazy  winds  out 
run 
And  hold  the  hours   as  Joshua  stayed  the 

sun,  — 

So  swift,  in  truth,  we  hardly  find  a  place 
For  those  dim  fictions  known  as  time  and 

space. 

Still  a  new  miracle  each  year  supplies,  — 
See  at  his  work  the  chemist  of  the  skies, 
Who  questions  Sirius  in  his  tortured  rays 
And  steals  the  secret  of  the  solar  blaze; 


262 


THE  IRON  GATE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Hush  !  while   the    window-rattling  bugles 

play 

The  nation's  airs  a  hundred  miles  away  ! 
That  wicked  phonograph  !   hark  !    how   it 

swears  ! 

Turn  it  again  and  make  it  say  its  prayers  ! 
And  was  it  true,  then,  what  the  story  said 
Of  Oxford's  friar  and  his  brazen  head  ? 
While  wondering   Science   stands,   herself 

perplexed 
At   each   day's  miracle,  and  asks  "What 

next  ?  " 

The  immortal  boy,  the  coming  heir  of  all, 
Springs  from  his  desk  to  "  urge  the  flying 

ball," 
Cleaves   with   his   bending  oar  the  glassy 

waves, 
With   sinewy    arm   the    dashing    current 

braves. 
The  same  bright  creature  in  these  haunts 

of  ours 
That   Eton   shadowed   with   her  "antique 

towers." 

Boy  !     Where  is   he  ?   the   long-limbed 

youth  inquires, 
Whom   his   rough   chin  with  manly  pride 

inspires; 

Ah,  when  the  ruddy  cheek  no  longer  glows, 
When  the  bright  hair   is  white  as  winter 

snows, 
When   the   dim   eye  has   lost  its  lambent 

flame, 
Sweet   to   his   ear   will   be   his  school-boy 

name  ! 

Nor  think  the  difference  mighty  as  it  seems 
Between  life's   morning    and   its   evening 

dreams; 
Fourscore,   like  twenty,  has  its  tasks  and 

toys; 
In  earth's  wide  school-house  all  are  girls 

and  boys. 

Brothers,   forgive   my  wayward    fancy. 

Who 

Can  guess  beforehand  what  his  pen  will  do  ? 
Too  light  my  strain  for  listeners  such  as 

these, 
Whom  graver  thoughts  and  soberer  speech 

shall  please. 

Is  he  not  here  whose  breath  of  holy  song 
Has  raised  the  downcast  eyes  of  Faith  so 

long? 
Are  they  not  here,  the  strangers  in  your 

gates, 


For    whom    the    wearied    ear     impatient 

waits,  — 
The    large-brained   scholars    whom    their 

toils  release,  — 
The   bannered   heralds   of   the    Prince   of 

Peace  ? 

Such  was  the  gentle  friend  whose  youth 

unblained 
In   years   long    past   our   student-benches 

claimed ; 

Whose  name,  illumined  on  the  sacred  page, 
Lives  in  the  labors  of  his  riper  age; 
Such   he    whose   record   time's  destroying 

march 

Leaves  uneffaced  on  Zion's  springing  arch: 
Not  to  the  scanty  phrase  of  measured  song, 
Cramped  in  its  fetters,  names  like  these 

belong; 
One   ray  they   lend    to   gild   my   slender 

line,  — 
Their  praise  I  leave  to  sweeter  lips  than 


Homes  of  our   sires,  where   Learning's 

temple  rose, 
While  yet  they  struggled  with  their  banded 

foes, 

As  in  the  West  thy  century's  sun  descends. 
One  parting  gleam  its  dying  radiance  lends. 
Darker  and  deeper  though  the  shadows 

fall 
From  the  gray  towers  on  Doubting  Castle's 

wall, 
Though   Pope  and   Pagan   re-array   their 

hosts, 
And    her    new    armor    youthful    Science 

boasts, 
Truth,    for   whose    altar    rose    this    holy 

shrine, 
Shall   fly  for   refuge  to   these   powers  of 

thine; 

No  past  shall  chain  her  with  its  rusted  vow, 
No  Jew's  phylactery  bind  her  Christian 

brow, 

But  Faith  shall  smile  to  find  her  sister  free, 
And  nobler  manhood  draw  its  life  from 

thee. 

Long  as  the  arching  skies   above  thee 

spread, 
As  on  thy  groves  the  dews  of  heaven  are 

shed, 
With  currents  widening  still  from  year  to 

year, 


OUR   HOME  — OUR   COUNTRY 


263 


And  deepening  channels,  calm,  untroubled, 

clear, 
Flow  the  twin  streamlets  from  thy  sacred 

hill  — 
Pieria's  fount  and  Siloam's  shaded  rill  ! 


THE    SILENT    MELODY 

'•BRING  me  my  broken  harp,"  he  said; 

"  We    both    are    wrecks,  —  but    as    ye 

will,  — 
Though  all  its  ringing-  tones  have  fled, 

Their  echoes  linger  round  it  still  ; 
It  had  some  golden  strings,  I  know, 
But  that  was  long  —  how  long  !  —  ago. 

"  I  cannot  see  its  tarnished  gold, 
I  cannot  hear  its  vanished  tone, 

Scarce  can  my  trembling  fingers  hold 
The  pillared  frame  so  long  their  own; 

We  both  are  wrecks,  —  awhile  ago 

It  had  some  silver  strings,  I  know, 

"  But  on  them  Time  too  long  has  played 
The  solemn  strain  that  kno \vsno  change, 

And  where  of  old  my  lingers  strayed 

The    chords    they    find    are     new    and 
strange,  — 

Yes  !  iron  strings,  —  I  know,  —  I  know,  — 

We  both  are  wrecks  of  long  ago. 

"  We    both     are     wrecks,  —  a     shattered 

pair,  — 

Strange    to    ourselves     in    time's     dis 
guise  .  .  . 
What  say  ye  to  the  lovesick  air 

That  brought  the    tears  from    Marian's 

eyes  ? 

Ay  !  trust  me,  —  under  breasts  of  snow 
Hearts  could  be  melted  long  ago  ! 

"  Or  will  ye  hear  the  storm-song's  crash 

That  from  his  dreams  the  soldier  woke, 
And  bade  him  face  the  lightning  flash 
When      battle's       cloud      in      thunder 

broke  ?  .  .  . 
Wrecks,  —  nought  but  wrecks  !  —  the  time 

was  when 
We  two  were  worth  a  thousand  men  !  " 

And  so  the  broken  harp  they  bring 

With    pitying    smiles   that   none    could 
blame; 


Alas  !  there  's  not  a  single  string 

Of  all  that  filled  the  tarnished  frame  ! 
But  see  !   like  children  overjoyed, 
His  fingers  rambling  through  the  void  ! 

'•  I    clasp     thee  !     Ay  .  .  .  mine    ancient 

lyre  .  .  . 
Nay,  guide  my  wandering  fingers.  .   .   . 

There  ! 
They  love  to  dally  with  the  wire 

As  Isaac  played  with  Esau's  hair.  .  .  . 
Hush  !  ye  shall  hear  the  famous  tune 
That  Marian  called  the  Breath  of  June  !  " 

And  so  they  softly  gather  round: 
Rapt  in  his  tuneful  trance  he  seems: 

His  fingers  move:  but  not  a  sound  ! 
A  silence  like  the  song  of  dreams.  .  .  . 

"  There  !  ye  have  heard  the  air,"  he  cries, 

';  That  brought  the    tears  from   Marian's 
eyes  !  " 

Ah,  smile  not  at  his  fond  conceit, 

Nor  deem  his  fancy  wrought  in  vain; 

To  him  the  unreal  sounds  are  sweet, — 
No  discord  mars  the  silent  strain 

Scored  on  life's  latest,  starlit  page  — 

The  voiceless  melody  of  age. 

Sweet  are  the  lips  of  all  that  sing, 

When  Nature's  music  breathes  unsought, 

But  never  yet  could  voice  or  string 
So  truly  shape  our  tenderest  thought 

As  when  by  life's  decaying  fire 

Our  fingers  sweep  the  string-loss  lyre  ! 


OUR    HOME— OUR    COUNTRY 

FOR  THE  SEMI-CENTENNIAL  CELEBRA 
TION  OF  THE  SETTLEMENT  OF  CAM 
BRIDGE,  MASS.,  DECEMBER  28,  iSSo 

YOUR    home    was    mine,  —  kind    Nature's 
gift; 

My  love  no  years  can  chill; 
In  vain  their  flakes  the  storm-winds  sift, 
The  snowdrop  hides  beneath  the  drift, 

A  living  blossom  still. 

Mute  are  a  hundred  long-famed  lyres, 
Hushed  all  their  golden  strings; 

One  lay  the  coldest  bosom  fires, 

One  song,  one  only,  never  tires 
While  sweet-voiced  memory  sings. 


264 


THE   IRON   GATE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


No  spot  so  lone  but  echo  knows 

That  dear  familiar  strain; 
In  tropic  isles,  on  arctic  snows, 
Through  burning  lips  its  music  flows 

And  rings  its  fond  refrain. 

From  Pisa's  tower  my  straining  sight 

Roamed  wandering  leagues  away, 
When  lo  !  a  frigate's  banner  bright, 
The  starry  blue,  the  red,  the  white, 
In  far  Livorno's  bay. 

Hot  leaps  the  life-blood  from  my  heart, 

Forth  springs  the  sudden  tear; 
The  ship  that  rocks  by  yonder  mart 
Is  of  my  land,  my  life,  a  part,  — 
Home,  home,  sweet  home,  is  here  ! 

Fades  from  my  view  the  sunlit  scene,  — 

My  vision  spans  the  waves; 
I  see  the  elm-encircled  green, 
The  tower,  —  the  steeple,  —  and,  between, 

The  field  of  ancient  graves. 

There  runs  the  path  my  feet  would  tread 

When  first  they  learned  to  stray; 
There  stands  the  gambrel  roof  that  spread 
Its  quaint  old  angles  o'er  my  head 
When  first  I  saw  the  day. 

The  sounds  that  met  my  boyish  ear 

My  inward  sense  salute,  — 
The  woodnotes  wild  I  loved  to  hear,  — 
The  robin's  challenge,  sharp  and  clear,  — 

The  breath  of  evening's  flute. 

The  faces  loved  from  cradle  days,  — 

Unseen,  alas,  how  long  ! 
As  fond  remembrance  round  them  plays, 
Touched  with  its  softening  moonlight  rays, 

Through  fancy's  portal  throng. 

And  see  !  as  if  the  opening  skies 

Some  angel  form  had  spared 
Us  wingless  mortals  to  surprise, 
The  little  maid  with  light-blue  eyes, 

White  necked  and  golden  haired  ! 


So  rose  the  picture  full  in  view 

I  paint  in  feebler  song; 
Such  power  the  seamless  banner  knew 
Of  red  and  white  and  starry  blue 

For  exiles  banished  long. 


Oh,  boys,  dear  boys,  who  wait  as  men 

To  guard  its  heaven-bright  folds, 
Blest  are  the  eyes  that  see  again 
That  banner,  seamless  now,  as  then, — 
The  fairest  earth  beholds  ! 

Sweet  was  the  Tuscan  air  and  soft 

In  that  unfading  hour, 
And  fancy  leads  my  footsteps  oft 
Up  the  round  galleries,  high  aloft 

On  Pisa's  threatening  tower. 

And  still  in  Memory's  holiest  shrine 

I  read  with  pride  and  joy, 
For  me  those  stars  of  empire  shine; 
That  empire's  dearest  home  is  mine; 

I  am  a  Cambridge  boy  !  " 


POEM 

AT  THE  CENTENNIAL  ANNIVERSARY 
DINNER  OF  THE  MASSACHUSETTS 
MEDICAL  SOCIETY,  JUNE  8,  1 88 1 

THREE  paths  there  be  where  Learning's 

favored  sons, 

Trained  in  the  schools  which  hold  her  fa 
vored  ones, 
Follow   their   several   stars  with   separate 

aim ; 

Each  has  its  honors,  each  its  special  claim. 
Bred  in  the  fruitful  cradle  of  the  East, 
First,  as  of  oldest  lineage,  comes  the  Priest; 
The  Lawyer  next,  in  wordy  conflict  strong, 
Full   armed   to   battle  for  the  right,  —  or 

wrong; 
Last,  he    whose   calling  finds   its  voice  in 

deeds, 

Frail  Nature's  helper  in  her  sharpest  needs. 
Each  has  his  gifts,  his  losses  and  his 

gains, 
Each  his  own  share  of  pleasures  and  of 

pains; 

No  life-long  aim  with  steadfast  eye  pursued 
Finds   a   smooth   pathway   all   with  roses 

strewed; 

Trouble  belongs  to  man  of  woman  born,  — 
Tread  where  he  may,  his  foot  will  find  its 

thorn. 

Of  all  the  guests  at  life's  perennial  feast, 
Who  of  her  children  sits  above  the  Priest  ? 
For   him   the  broidered   robe,  the  carven 
seat, 


MASSACHUSETTS   MEDICAL   SOCIETY   DINNER 


265 


Pride  at  his  beck,  and  beauty  at  his  feet, 
For   him    the    incense   fumes,  the  wine  is 

poured, 

Himself  a  God,  adoring'  and  adored  ! 
His   the   first    welcome    when   our    hearts 

rejoice, 

His  in  our  dying  ear  the  latest  voice, 
Font,  altar,  grave,  his  steps  on  all  attend, 
Our  staff,  our  stay,  our  all  but  heavenly 

friend  ! 
"Where  is  the  meddling  hand  that  dares 

to  probe 

The  secret  grief  beneath  his  sable  robe  ? 
How  grave    his    port  !  how  every  gesture 

tells 
Here    truth    abides,    here    peace    forever 

dwells; 

Vex  not  his  lofty  soul  with  comments  vain; 
Faith  asks  no  questions;  silence,  ye  pro 
fane  ! 

Alas  !  too  oft  while  all  is  calm  without 
The  stormy  spirit  wars  with  endless  doubt  • 
This    is   the  mocking  sceptre,   scarce  con 
cealed 
Behind   tradition's    bruised   and    battered 

shield. 

He  sees  the  sleepless  critic,  age  by  age, 
Scrawl  his  new  readings  on  the  hallowed 

page, 
The  wondrous  deeds  that  priests  and  pro-   ' 

phots  saw 

Dissolved  in  legend,  crystallized  in  law, 
And  on  the  soil  where  saints  and  martyrs 

trod 

Altars  new  builded  to  the  Unknown  God; 
His  shrines  imperilled,  his  evangels  torn, — 
He  dares  not  limp,  but  ah  !  how  sharp  his 

thorn  ! 
Yet  while  God's  herald  questions  as  he 

reads 

The  outworn  dogmas  of  his  ancient  creeds, 
Drops  from  his  ritual  the  exploded  verse, 
Blots  from  its  page  the  Athanasian  curse, 
Though  by  the  critic's  dangerous  art  per 
plexed, 

His  holy  life  is  Heaven's  unquestioned  text; 
That    shining    guidance    doubt    can    never 

mar,  — 

The  pillar's  flame,  the  light  of  Bethlehem's 
star  ! 

Strong  is  the  moral  blister  that  will  draw 
Laid  on  the  conscience  of  the  Man  of  Law 
Whom  blindfold  Justice  lends  her  eyes  to 
see 


Truth  in  the  scale  that  holds  his  promised 
fee. 

What  !     Has    not    every   lie     its   truthful 
side, 

Its  honest  fraction,  not  to  be  denied  ? 

Per  contra,  —  ask  the  moralist,  —  in  sooth 

Has  not  a  lie  its  share  in  every  truth  ? 

Then  what  forbids  an  honest  man  to  try 

To  find  the  truth  that  lurks  in  every  lie, 

And  just  as  fairly  call  on  truth  to  yield 

The  lying  fraction  in  its  breast  concealed  ? 

So  the   worst    rogue    shall  claim    a    ready 
friend 

His  modest  virtues  boldly  to  defend, 

And  he  who  shows  the  record  of  a  saint 

See  himself  blacker  than   the  devil  could 

paint. 

What  struggles  to  his  captive  soul  be 
long 

Who  loves  the  right,  yet  combats  for  the 
wrong, 

Who    fights  the  battle   he  would  fain   re 
fuse, 

And  wins,  well  knowing  that  he   ought  to 
lose, 

Who  speaks  with    glowing    lips    and  look 
sincere 

In    spangled  words    that  make    the  worse 
appear 

The  better  reason;  who,  behind  his  mask, 

Hides    his    true    self    and    blushes    at    his 
task,  — 

What   quips,  what    quillets    cheat    the  in 
ward  scorn 

That  mocks   such  triumph  ?     Has  he  not 

his  thorn  ? 

Yet  stay  thy  judgment;    were  thy  life 
the  prize, 

Thy   death    the    forfeit,    would    thy    cynic 
eyes 

See  fault   in   him  who  bravely  dares  de 
fend 

The    cause    forlorn,  the  wretch  without  a 
friend  ? 

Xay,  though  the  rightful  side  is  wisdom's 
choice, 

Wrong  has  its  rights  and  claims  a  cham 
pion's  voice  ; 

Let  the  strong  arm  be  lifted  for  the  weak, 

For  the    dumb    lips    the    fluent    pleader 
speak;  — 

When    with    warm     "  rebel "    blood    our 
street  was  dyed 

Who   took,    unawed,   the    hated  hirelings' 
side  ? 


266 


THE   IRON   GATE   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


No  greener  civic  wreath  can  Adams  claim, 
No  brighter  page   the   youthful    Quincy's 


How  blest  is  he  who  knows  no  meaner 

strife 
Than  Art's  long   battle  with  the   foes   of 

life! 

No  doubt  assails  him,  doing  still  his  best, 
And  trusting  kindly  Nature  for  the  rest; 
No  mocking  conscience  tears  the  thin  dis 
guise 
That  wraps  his  breast,  and  tells  him  that 

he  lies. 
He  comes:   the   languid  sufferer  lifts   his 

head 
And   smiles   a   welcome   from    his   weary 

bed; 
He  speaks:  what  music  like  the  tones  that 

tell, 
"  Past   is    the    hour    of    danger,  —  all   is 

well  ! " 

How  can  he  feel  the  petty  stings  of  grief 
Whose    cheering   presence    always   brings 

relief  ? 

What  ugly  dreams  can  trouble  his  repose 
Who   yields   himself   to    soothe   another's 

woes  ? 

Hour  after  hour  the  busy  day  has  found 
The  good  physician  on  his  lonely  round; 
Mansion  and  hovel,  low  and  lofty  door, 
He   knows,  his   journeys   every   path   ex 
plore,  — 
Where    the    cold    blast   has   struck   with 

deadly  chill 
The    sturdv   dweller   on   the  storm-swept 

hill," 

Where  by  the  stagnant  marsh  the  sicken 
ing  gale 
Has  blanched  the  poisoned  tenants  of  the 

vale, 
Where  crushed  and  maimed  the  bleeding 

victim  lies, 
WThere    madness  raves,  where  melancholy 

sighs, 
And  where   the  solemn  whisper  tells  too 

plain 

That  all  his  science,  all  his  art,  were  vain. 
How  sweet  his  fireside  when  the  day  is 

done 
And  cares  have  vanished  with  the  setting 

sun  ! 

Evening  at  last  its  hour  of  respite  brings 
And   on   his   couch   his   weary   length   he 

flings. 


Soft  be  thy  pillow,  servant  of  mankind, 
Lulled  by  an  opiate  Art  could  never  find; 
Sweet  be  thy  slumber,  —  thou  hast  earned 

it  well,  — 
Pleasant  thy  dreams  !     Clang  !    goes  the 

midnight  bell ! 
Darkness  and  storm  !   the  home  is  far 

away 

That  waits  his  coming  ere  the  break  of  day; 
The  snow-clad  pines  their  wintry  plumage 

toss,  — 
Doubtful  the  frozen  stream  his  road  must 

cross ; 
Deep  lie  the  drifts,  the  slanted  heaps  have 

shut 

The  hardy  woodman  in  his  mountain  hut,  — 
Why  should  thy  softer  frame  the  tempest 

brave  ? 
Hast  thou   no  life,  no   health,  to   lose   or 

save  ? 
Look !     read    the    answer    in    his   patient 

.eyes,  — 
For   him   no   other   voice    when   suffering 

cries; 

Deaf  to  the  gale  that  all  around  him  blows, 

A  feeble  whisper  calls  him,  —  and  he  goes. 

Or  seek   the  crowded  city,  —  summer's 

heat 
Glares   burning,    blinding,   in   the   narrow 

street, 

Still,  noisome,    deadly,  sleeps   the   enven 
omed  air, 

Unstirred  the  yellow  flag  that  says  "  Be 
ware  !  " 
Tempt  not  thy  fate,  —  one  little  moment's 

breath 
Bears  on  its  viewless   wing  the   seeds   of 

death ; 
Thou   at  whose   door  the   gilded   chariots 

stand, 
Whose     dear-bought    skill    unclasps    the 

miser's  hand, 

Turn  from  thy  fatal  quest,  nor  cast  away 
That  life  so  precious ;  let  a  meaner  prey 
Feed  the  destroyer's  hunger;  live  to  bless 
Those  happier  homes  that  need  thy  care  no 

less  ! 

Smiling  he  listens;  has  he  then  a  charm 
Whose  magic  virtues  peril  can  disarm  ? 
No  safeguard  his;  no  amulet  he  wears, 
Too   well    he   knows   that    Nature    never 

spares 

Her  truest  servant,  powerless  to  defend 
From  her   own   weapons  her   unshrinking 
friend. 


MASSACHUSETTS   MEDICAL    SOCIETY   DINNER 


267 


He  dares  the  fate  the  bravest  well  might 

shun, 
Nor    asks    reward     save    only    Heaven's 

"Well  done  !" 
Such  are    the    toils,  the    perils   that    he 

knows, 

Days  without  rest  and  nights  without   re 
pose, 

Yet  all  unheeded  for  the  love  he  bears 
His    art,  his    kind,  whose    every  grief    he 

shares. 
Harder  than  these  to  know   how  small 

the  part 

Nature's  proud  empire  yields  to   striving- 
Art; 
Ho\v,  as    the   tide   that   rolls   around   the 

sphere 
Laughs  at  the  mounds  that  delving  arms 

uprear,  — 
Spares  some  few  roods  of  oozy  earth,  but 

still 

Wastes  and  rebuilds  the  planet  at  its  will, 
Comes  at  its  ordered  season,  night  or  noon, 
Led  by  the  silver  magnet  of  the  moon, — 
So  life's  vast  tide  forever  comes  and  goes, 
Unchecked,  resistless,  as  it  ebbs  and  Hows. 
Hardest  of  all,  when  Art  has  done  her 

best, 

To  find  the  cuckoo  brooding  in  her  nest; 
The  shrewd  adventurer,  fresh  from  parts 

unknown, 
Kills  off  the  patients  Science  thought  her 

own; 
Towns   from    a  nostrum-vender   get  their 

name, 

Fences  and  walls    the  cure-all   drug   pro 
claim, 

Plasters   and   pads   the  willing  world  be 
guile, 

Fair  Lydia  greets  us  with  astringent  smile, 
Munchausen's  fellow-countryman  unlocks 
His  new  Pandora's  globule-holding  box, 
And  as  King  George  inquired,  with  puzzled 

grin, 

"  How  —  how  the  devil  get  the  apple  in  ?  " 
So   we    ask    how,  —  with    wonder-opening 

eyes,  — 

Such  pygmy  pills  can  hold  such  giant  lies! 
Yes,    sharp    the    trials,  stern   the    daily 

tasks 
That   suffering  Nature  from  her   servant 

asks ; 

His  the  kind  office  dainty  menials  scorn, 
His   path    how   hard,  —  at    every    step    a 
thorn  ! 


What  does  his  saddening,  restless  slavery 

buy  ? 

What  save  a  right  to  live,  a  chance  to  die,  — 
To  live  companion  of  disease  and  pain, 
To  die  by  poisoned  shafts  untimely  slain  ? 
Answer  from  hoary  eld,  majestic  shades, — 
From  Memphian  courts,  from  Delphic  col 
onnades, 
Speak  in   the    tones   that    Persia's  despot 

heard 

When  nations  treasured  every  golden  word 
The  wandering  echoes  wafted  o'er  the  seas, 
From  the  far  isle  that  held  Hippocrates; 
And  thou,  best  gift  that  Pergamus   could 

send 

Imperial  Rome,  her  noblest  Caesar's  friend, 
Master   of    masters,    whose    unchallenged 

sway 

Not  bold  Vesalius  dared  to  disobey; 
Ye  who  while  prophets  dreamed  of  dawn 
ing  times 
Taught    your    rude    lessons    in    Salerno's 

rhymes, 

And  ye,  the  nearer  sires,  to  whom  we  owe 
The  better  share  of  all  the  best  we  know, 
In  every  land  an  ever-growing  train, 
Since  wakening  Science   broke  her  rusted 

chain,  — 
Speak  from  the  past,  and  say  what  prize 

was  sent 

To  crown  the  toiling  years  so  freely  spent  ! 
List  while  they  speak: 

In  life's  uneven  road 
Our  willing  hands  have  eased  our  brothers' 

load; 

One  forehead  smoothed,  one  pang  of  tor 
ture  less, 
One   peaceful    hour   a  sufferer's  couch  to 

bless. 
The  smile  brought  back  to  fever's  parching 

lips, 

The  light  restored  to  reason  in  eclipse, 
Life's  treasui'e  rescued  like  a  burning  brand 
Snatched  from  the  dread  destroyer's  waste 
ful  hand; 

Such  were  our  simple  records  day  by  day, 
For  gains  like  these  we  wore  our  lives  away. 
In  toilsome  paths  our  daily  bread  we  sought, 
But  bread   from  heaven  attending  angels 

brought ; 
Pain   was    our   teacher,    speaking    to    the 

heart, 

Mother  of  pity,  nurse  of  pitying  art; 
Our  lesson  learned,  we  reached  the  peace 
ful  shore 


268 


THE  IRON  GATE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Where   the  pale  sufferer  asks  our  aid  no 

more,  — 
These  gracious  words  our  welcome,  our 

reward: 
Ye  served  your  brothers;  ye  have  served 

your  Lord  ! 


HARVARD 

[Read  at  Commencement  Dinner,  July  1, 
1880.  The  author  had  that  day  received 
from  his  Alma  Mater  the  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Laws.] 

CHANGELESS  in  beauty,  rose-hues  on  her 
cheek, 

Old  walls,  old  trees,  old  memories  all 
around 

Lend  her  unfading  youth  their  charm  an 
tique 

And  fill  with  mystic  light  her  holy  ground. 

Here  the  lost  dove  her  leaf  of  promise 
found 

While  the  new  morning  showed  its  blush 
ing  streak 

Far  o'er  the  waters  she  had  crossed  to  seek 

The  bleak,  wild  shore  in  billowy  forests 
drowned. 

Mother  of  scholars  !  on  thy  rising  throne 

Thine  elder  sisters  look  benignant  down; 

England's  proud  twins,  and  they  whose 
cloisters  own 


The  fame  of  Abelard,  the  scarlet  gown 
That  laughing  Rabelais  wore,  not  yet  out 
grown  — 
And  on  thy  forehead  place  the  New  World's 


crown. 


RHYMES  OF  A  LIFE-TIME 

FROM  the  first   gleam  of  morning   to  the 

gray 

Of  peaceful  evening,  lo,  a  life  unrolled  ! 
In  woven  pictures  all  its  changes  told, 
Its  lights,  its  shadows,  every  flitting  ray, 
Till  the  long  curtain,  falling,  dims  the  day, 
Steals  from  the  dial's  disk  the  sunlight's 

gold, 
And  all  the  graven  hours  grow  dark  and 

cold 
Where  late  the  glowing  blaze  of  noontide 

lay. 
Ah  !  the  warm  blood  runs  wild  in  youthful 

veins,  — 

Let  me  no  longer  play  with  painted  fire; 
New  songs  for  new-born  days  !     I  would 

not  tire 
The  listening   ears   that  wait  for   fresher 

strains 
In     phrase     new  -  moulded,    new  -  forged 

rhythmic  chains, 

With  plaintive  measures  from  a  worn-out 
lyre. 


BEFORE  THE    CURFEW 


AT  MY  FIRESIDE 

ALONE,  beneath  the  darkened  sky, 

With  saddened  heart  and  unstrung  lyre, 
I  heap  the  spoils  of  years  gone  by, 
And  leave  them  with  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
Like  drift-wood   brands    that   glimmering 

lie, 
Before  the  ashes  hide  the  tire. 


Let  not  these  slow  declining  days 
The  rosy  light  of  dawn  outlast; 
Still  round  my  lonely  hearth  it  plays, 
And  gilds  the  east  with  borrowed  rays, 
While  memory's  mirrored  sunset  blaze 
Flames  on  the  windows  of  the  past. 
March  1,  1888. 


AT  THE  SATURDAY  CLUB 

About  the  time  when  these  papers  [The  +lu-  ; 
tocrat]  were  published,  the  Saturday  Club  was 
founded,  or,  rather,  found  itself  in  existence, 
without  any  organi/ation,  almost  without  par 
entage.  It  was  natural  enough  that  such  men 
as  Emerson,  Long-fellow,  Agassiz,  Peirce,  with 
Hawthorne,  Motley,  Simmer,  when  within 
reach,  and  others  who  would  be  good  com 
pany  for  them,  should  meet  and  dine  to 
gether  once  in  a  while,  as  they  did,  in  point  of  I 
fact,  every  month,  and  as  some  who  are  still 
living-,  with  other  and  newer  members,  still 
meet  and  dine.  If  some  of  them  had  not  ad 
mired  each  other  they  would  have  been  ex 
ceptions  in  the  world  of  letters  and  science. 
The  club  deserves  being1  remembered  for  hav 
ing  no  constitution  or  by-laws,  for  making  no 
speeches,  reading-  no  papers,  observing  no  cere 
monies,  coming-  and  going  at  will  without 
remark,  and  acting  out,  though  it  did  not  pro 
claim  the  motto,  "  Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease 
in  mine  inn '?  ?'  There  was  and  is  nothing  of 
the  Bohemian  element  about  this  club,  but  it 
has  had  many  good  times  and  not  a  little  good 
talking'. 

269 


THIS  is  our  place  of  meeting;  opposite 
That   towered  and  pillared  building:  look 

at  it; 

King'*  Chapel  in  the  Second  George's  day, 
Rebellion  stole  its  regal  name  away,  — 
Stone  Chapel  sounded  Hotter;  but  at  last 
The  poisoned  name  of  our  provincial  past 
Had  lost  its  ancient  venom;  then  once  more 
Stone  Chapel  was  King's  Chapel  as  before. 
(So  let  rechristened  North  Street,  when  it 

can, 
Bring  back  the  days  of  Marlborough  and 

Queen  Anne  !) 
Xext  the  old  church  your  wandering  eye 

will  meet  — 

A  granite  pile  that  stares  upon  the  street  — 
Our  civic  temple;  slanderous  tongues  have 

said 
Its  shape  was  modelled  from  St.  Botolph's 

head, 

Lofty,  but  narrow;  jealous  passers-by 
Say  Boston  always  held  her  head  too  high. 
Turn  half-way  round,  and  let  your  look 

survey 
The  white  facade  that  gleams  across   the 

way,  — 

The  many-windowed  building,  tall  and  wide, 
The  palace-inn  that  shows  its  northern  side 
In  grateful  shadow  when  the  sunbeams 

beat 
The    granite   wall  in    summer's    scorching 

heat. 
This  is  the  place;  whether  its   name  you 

spell 

Tavern,  or  caravansera,  or  hotel. 
Would  I  could  steal  its  echoes  !  you  should 

find 
Such  store  of  vanished  pleasures  brought  to 

mind: 
Such  feasts  !  the  laughs  of  many  a  jocund 

hour 
That  shook  the  mortar  from  King  George's 

tower; 

Such  guests  !  What  famous  names  its  rec 
ord  boasts, 


270 


BEFORE   THE   CURFEW 


Whose  owners  wander  in  the  mob  of  ghosts  ! 
Such   stories  !     Every  beam  and  plank  is 

filled 

With  juicy  wit  the  joyous  talkers  spilled. 
Ready  to  ooze,  as  once  the  mountain  pine 
The  floors  are  laid  with  oozed  its  turpen 
tine  ! 

A  mouth  had  flitted  since  The  Club  had 

met; 

The  day  came  round ;  I  found  the  table  set, 
The  waiters  lounging  round  the   marble 

stairs, 

Empty  as  yet  the  double  row  of  chairs. 
I  was  a  full  half  hour  before  the  rest, 
Alone,  the  banquet-chamber's  single  guest. 
So  from  the  table's  side  a  chair  I  took, 
And  having  neither  company  nor  book 
To  keep  me  waking,  by  degrees  there  crept 
A  torpor  over  me,  —  in  short,  I  slept. 
Loosed  from  its  chain,  along  the  wreck- 

strown  track 
Of  the  dead  years  my  soul  goes  travelling 

back; 
My  ghosts  take  on  their  robes  of  flesh;  it 

seems 
Dreaming  is  life;  nay,  life  less  life  than 

dreams, 

So  real  are  the  shapes  that  meet  my  eyes. 
They  bring  no  sense  of  wonder,  no  surprise, 
No  hint  of  other  than  an  earth-born  source ; 
All   seems   plain   daylight,   everything   of 

course. 
How  dim  the  colors  are,  how  poor  and 

faint 
This  palette  of  weak  words  with  which  I 

paint ! 

Here  sit  my  friends ;  if  I  could  fix  them  so 
As  to  my  eyes  they  seem,  my  page  would 

glow 

Like  a  queen's  missal,  warm  as  if  the  brush 
Of  Titian  or  Velasquez  brought  the  flush 
Of  life  into  their  features.     Ay  de  mi! 
If  syllables  were  pigments,  you  should  see 
Such  breathing  portraitures  as  never  man 
Found  in  the  Pitti  or  the  Vatican. 

Here  sits  our  POET,  Laureate,  if  you  will. 
Long  has  he  worn  the  wreath,  and  wears  it 

still. 
Dead?     Nay,  not  so;  and  yet  they  say  his 

bust 

Looks  down  on  marbles  covering  royal  dust, 
Kings  by  the  Grace  of  God,  or  Nature's 

grace; 


Dead !    No  !     Alive  !     I   see  him  in  his 

place, 
Full-featured,  with  the  bloom  that  heaven 

denies 

Her  children,  pinched  by  cold  New  Eng 
land  skies, 

Too  often,  while  the  nursery's  happier  few 
Win  from  a  summer  cloud  its  roseate  hue. 
Kind,  soft-voiced,  gentle,  in  his  eye  there 

shines 

The  ray  serene  that  filled  Evangeline's. 
Modest  he  seems,  not  shy;   content  to 

wait 

Amid  the  noisy  clamor  of  debate 
The   looked-for  moment  when  a  peaceful 

word 
Smooths  the  rough  ripples  louder  tongues 

have  stirred. 

In  every  tone  I  mark  his  tender  grace 
And  all  his  poems  hinted  in  his  face; 
What  tranquil   joy  his   friendly  presence 

gives  ! 
How  could  I  think  him  dead  ?     He  lives  ! 

He  lives  ! 

There,  at  the  table's  further  end  I  see 
In  his  old  place  our  Poet's  vis-a-vis, 
The  great  PKOFESSOR,  strong,  broad-shoul 
dered,  square, 

In  life's  rich  noontide,  joyous,  debonair. 
His  social  hour  no  leaden  care  alloys, 
His  laugh  rings  loud   and  mirthful   as   a 

boy's,  — 

That  lusty  laugh  the  Puritan  forgot,  — 
What  ear  has  heard  it  and  remembers  not  ? 
How  often,  halting  at  some  wide  crevasse 
Amid  the  windings  of  his  Alpine  pass, 
High   up    the   cliffs,   the  climbing  moun 
taineer, 

Listening  the  far-off  avalanche  to  hear, 
Silent,  and  leaning  on  his  steel-shod  staff, 
Has  heard  that  cheery  voice,  that  ringing 

laugh, 

From  the  rude  cabin  whose  nomadic  walls 
Creep  with  the  moving  glacier  as  it  crawls  ! 
How  does  vast  Nature  lead   her  living 

train 
In  ordered  sequence  through  that  spacious 

brain, 

As  in  the  primal  hour  when  Adam  named 
The   new-born   tribes  that  young  creation 

claimed  !  — 
How  will   her  realm  be   darkened,  losing 

thee, 
Her  darling,  whom  we  call  our  AGASSIZ  ! 


OUR   DEAD    SINGER 


But  who  is  he  whose  massive  frame  be 
lies 

The  maiden  shyness  of  his  downcast  eyes  ? 
Who  broods  in  silence  till,  by  questions 

pressed, 
Some  answer  struggles  from   his  laboring 

breast  ? 

An  artist  Nature  meant  to  dwell  apart, 
Locked  in  his  studio  with  a  human  heart, 
Tracking  its  caverned  passions  to  their  lair, 
And  all  its  throbbing  mysteries  laying  bare. 
Count  it  no  marvel  that  he  broods  alone 
Over  the  heart  he  studies,  —  't  is  his  own; 
So  in  his  page,  whatever  shape  it  wear, 
The  Essex  wizard's  shadowed  self  is  there, — 
The  great  ROMANCER,  hid  beneath  his  veil 
Like  the  stern  preacher  of  his  sombre  tale; 
Virile  in  strength,  vet  bashful  as  a  girl, 
Prouder  than  Hester,  sensitive  as  Pearl. 

From   his    mild    throng   of    worshippers   ! 

released, 

Our  Concord  Delphi  sends  its  chosen  priest,    ' 
Prophet  or  poet,  mystic,  sage,  or  seer, 
P>y  every  title  always  welcome  here. 
Why  that  ethereal  spirit's  frame  describe  ? 
You  know  the  race-marks  of  the  Brahmin 

tribe, — 
The   spare,  slight   form,  the   sloping  shoul- 

.  der's  droop, 
The    calm,    scholastic    mien,    the     clerkly 

stoop, 
The  lines  of  thought  the  sharpened  features 

wear, 
Carved  by  the  edge  of  keen  New  England 

air. 
List  !  for  he  speaks  !     As  when  a  king 

would  choose 

The  jewels  for  his  bride,  he  might  refuse 
This  diamond  for  its  tlaw,  —  find  that  less   ' 

bright 
Than  those,  its  fellows,  and  a  pearl  less 

white 

Than  fits  her  snowy  neck,  and  yet  at  last, 
The  fairest  gems  are    chosen,   and    made 

fast 

In  golden  fetters;  so,  with  light  delays 
He  seeks  the  fittest  word  to  fill  his  phrase; 
Nor  vain  nor  idle  his  fastidious  quest, 
His  chosen  word  is  sure  to  prove  the  best. 
Where  in  the   realm  of  thought,  whose   J 

air  is  song, 

Does  he,  the  Buddha  of  the  West,  belong  ? 
He  seems  a  winged  Franklin,  sweetly  wise, 
Born  to  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  skies; 


And  which  the  nobler  calling,  —  if 't  is  fair 
Terrestrial  with  celestial  to  compare,  — 
To  guide  the  storm-cloud's  elemental  tlame, 
Or  walk   the  chambers  whence  the  light 
ning  came, 

Amidst  the  sources  of  its  subtile  fire, 
And  steal  their  effluence  for  his  lips  and 

lyre  ? 

If  lost  at  times  in  vague  aerial  flights, 
None  treads  with  firmer  footstep  when  he 

lights; 

A  soaring  nature,  ballasted  with  sense, 
Wisdom  without  her  wrinkles  or  pretence, 
In  every  Bible  he  has  faith  to  read, 
And  every  altar  helps  to  shape  his  creed. 
Ask    you  what    name    this  prisoned  spirit 

bears 
While  with  ourselves  this  fleeting  breath  it 

shares  ? 

Till  angels  greet  him  witli  a  sweeter  one 
In  heaven,  on  earth  we  call  him  EMKKSOX. 

I  start;  I  wake;  the  vision  is  withdrawn; 

Its  figures  fading  like  the  stars  at  dawn; 

Crossed  from  the  roll  of  life  their  cher 
ished  names, 

And  memory's  pictures  fading  in  their 
frames; 

Yet  life  is  lovelier  for  these  transient  gleams 

Of  buried  friendships;  blest  is  he  who 
dreams  ! 


OUR  DEAD  SINGER 

H.    W.    L. 

PRIDE  of  the  sister  realm  so  long  our  own, 
We  claim  with  her  that  spotless  fame  of 

thine, 
White  as  her  snow  and  fragrant  as  her 

pine  ! 

Ours  was  thy  birthplace,  but  in  every  zone 
Some  wreatli  of  song  thy  liberal  hand  has 

thrown 
Breathes   perfume    from    its    blossoms, 

that  entwine 

Where'er   the    dewdrops    fall,    the    sun 
beams  shine, 
On  life's  long  path  with  tangled  cares  o'er- 

grown. 

Can    Art   thy   truthful    counterfeit    com 
mand,  — 

The     silver-haloed     features,     tranquil, 
mild,  — 


272 


BEFORE   THE   CURFEW 


Soften  the  lips  of  bronze  as  when  they 

smiled, 
Give  warmth  and  pressure  to  the  marble 

hand  ? 

Seek  the  lost  rainbow  in  the  sky  it  spanned  ! 
Farewell,   sweet    Singer !     Heaven    re 
claims  its  child. 

Carved  from  the  block  or  cast  in  clinging 

mould, 
Will   grateful   Memory   fondly  try   her 

best 

The  mortal  vesture  from  decay  to  wrest; 
His  loolc  shall  greet  us,  calm,  but  ah,  how 

cold! 

No  breath  can  stir  the  brazen  drapery's  fold, 
No  throb  can  heave  the  statue's   stony 

breast; 
"  He  is  not  here,  but  risen,"  will  stand 

confest 

In  all  we  miss,  in  all  our  eyes  behold. 
How   Nature   loved   him  !     On  his  placid 

brow, 
Thought's  ample  dome,  she  set  the  sacred 

sign 
That  marks  the  priesthood  of  her  holiest 

shrine, 

Nor  asked  a  leaflet  from  the  laurel's  bough 
That  envious  Time  might  clutch  or  disallow, 
To   prove   her    chosen    minstrel's    song 
divine. 

On   many  a  saddened  hearth  the  evening 

fire 
Burns  paler  as  the  children's  hour  draws 

near,  — 
That  joyous  hour  his  song  made  doubly 

dear,  — 
And  tender  memories  touch  the  faltering 

choir. 

He  sings  no  more  on  earth;  our  vain  desire 
Aches  for  the  voice  we  loved  so  long  to 

hear 
In  Dorian  flute-notes  breathing  soft  and 

clear,  — 

The  sweet  contralto  that  could  never  tire. 
Deafened  with  listening  to  a  harsher  strain, 
The  Mamad's  scream,  the  stark  barba 
rian's  cry, 
Still  for  those  soothing,  loving  tones  we 

sigh; 

Oh,  for  our  vanished  Orpheus  once  again  ! 
The  shadowy  silence  hears  us  call  in  vain  ! 
His  lips  are  hushed ;  his  song  shall  never 
die. 


TWO     POEMS      TO     HARRIET 
BEECHER  STOWE 

ON     HER     SEVENTIETH    BIRTHDAY, 
JUNE    14,    1882 

I.  AT  THE  SUMMIT 

SISTER,   we  bid  you  welcome,  —  we   who 
stand 

On  the  high  table-land; 
We  who  have  climbed  life's  slippery  Alpine 

slope. 

And  rest,  still  leaning  on  the  staff  of  hope, 
Looking  along  the  silent  Mer  de  Glace, 
Leading  our  footsteps  where  the  dark  cre 
vasse 

Yawns  in  the  frozen  sea  we  all  must  pass,  — 
Sister,  we  clasp  your  hand  ! 

Rest  with  us  in  the  hour  that  Heaven  has 
lent 

Before  the  swift  descent. 

Look  !  the  warm  sunbeams  kiss  the  glitter 
ing  ice; 

See  !  next  the  snow-drift  blooms  the  edel 
weiss; 

The  mated  eagles  fan  the  frosty  air; 

Life,  beauty,  love,  around  us  everywhere, 

And,    in   their  time,  the  darkening  hours 
that  bear 

Sweet  memories,  peace,  content. 

Thrice  welcome  !  shining  names  our  missals 

show 

Amid  their  rubrics'  glow, 
But  search  the  blazoned  record's  starry  line, 
What   halo's   radiance   fills  the  page  like 

thine  ? 
Thou  who  by  some  celestial  clue   couldst 

find 

The  way  to  all  the  hearts  of  all  mankind, 
On  thee,  already  canonized,  enshrined, 

What  more  can  Heaven  bestow  ! 

II.   THE  WORLD'S  HOMAGE 

IF  every  tongue  that  speaks  her  praise 
For  whom  I  shape  my  tinkling  phrase 

Were  summoned  to  the  table, 
The  vocal  chorus  that  would  meet 
Of  mingling  accents  harsh  or  sweet, 
From  every  land  and  tribe,  would  beat 

The  polyglots  at  Babel. 


A   WELCOME   TO    DR.    BENJAMIN    APTHORP   GOULD       273 


Briton  and  Frenchman,  Swede  and  Dane, 
Turk,  Spaniard,  Tartar  of  Ukraine, 

Hidalgo,  Cossack,  Cadi, 
High  Dutchman  and  Low  Dutchman,  too, 
The  Russian  serf,  the  Polish  Jew, 
Arab,  Armenian,  and  Mantchoo, 

Would  shout,  "  We  know  the  lady  !  " 

Know  her  !     Who  knows  not  Uncle  Tom 
And  her  he  learned  his  gospel  from 

Has  never  heard  of  Moses ; 
Full  well  the  brave  black  hand  we  know 
That  gave  to  freedom's  grasp  the  hoe 
That  killed  the  weed  that  used  to  grow 

Among  the  Southern  roses. 

When  Archimedes,  long  ago, 

Spoke  out  so  grandly,  "  dos  poit  sto  — 

Give  me  a  place  to  stand  on, 
I  '11  move  your  planet  for  you,  now,"  — 
He  little  dreamed  or  fancied  how 
The  a  to  at  last  should  find  its  pou 

For  woman's  faith  to  land  on. 

Her  lever  was  the  wand  of  art, 
Her  fulcrum  was  the  human  heart, 

Whence  all  unfailing  aid  is; 
She  moved  the  earth  !    Its  thunders  pealed, 
Its  mountains  shook,  its  temples  reeled, 
The  blood-red  fountains  were  unsealed, 

And  Moloch  sunk  to  Hades. 

All  through  the  conflict,  up  and  down 
Marched  Uncle  Tom  and  Old  John  Brown, 

One  ghost,  one  form  ideal; 
And  which  was  false  and  which  was  true, 
And  which  was  mightier  of  the  two, 
The  wisest  sibyl  never  knew, 

For  both  alike  were  real. 

Sister,  the  holy  maid  does  well 

Who  counts  her  beads  in  convent  cell, 

Where  pale  devotion  lingers; 
But  she  who  serves  the  sufferer's  needs, 
Whose  prayers  are  spelt  in  loving  deeds, 
May  trust  the  Lord  will  count  her  beads 

As  well  as  human  fingers. 

When  Truth  herself  was  Slavery's  slave, 
Thy  hand  the  prisoned  suppliant  gave 

The  rainbow  wings  of  fiction. 
And  Truth  who  soared  descends  to-day 
Bearing  an  angel's  wreath  away. 
Its  lilies  at  thy  feet  to  lay 

With  Heaven's  own  benediction. 


A  WELCOME   TO   DR.   BENJAMIN 
APTHORP    GOULD 

OX  HIS  RETURN  FROM  SOUTH  AMERICA 

AFTER  FIFTF.F.X  YFARS  DEVOTF!)  TO  CATA 
LOGUING  TI1F  STARS  OF  THK  SOUTHFRX 
HEMISPHERE 

Read  at  the  Dinner  given  at  the  Hotel  Yen- 
doine,  May  0,  l^So. 

ONCE  more  Orion  and  the  sister  Seven 
Look  on  thee  from  the  skies  that  hailed 

thy  birth,  — 
How  shall  we   welcome  thee,  whose  home 

was  heaven, 

From   thy  celestial  wanderings   back    to 
earth  ? 

Science  has  kept  her  midnight  taper  burn 
ing 
To    greet    thy    coming    with    its    vestal 

flame; 
Friendship  has  murmured,  "  When  art  thou 

returning  ?  " 

"  Not    yet  !     Not    yet  ! ''  the   answering 
message  came. 

Thine  was  unstinted  zral,  unchilled  devo 
tion, 
While  the  blue  realm  had  kingdoms  to 

explore,  — 
Patience,  like  his  who  ploughed  the  unfur- 

rowed  ocean, 

Till  o'er   its   margin   loomed   San  Salva 
dor. 

Through   the   long  nights  I  see  thee  ever 

waking", 

Thy  footstool  earth,  thy  roof   the   hemi 
sphere, 
While   with   thy  griefs   our  weaker  hearts 

are  aching, 

Firm    as    thine    equatorial's    rock-based 
pier. 

The  souls   that    voyaged  the   azure  depths 

before  thee 

Watch   with   thy   tireless  vigils,  all   un 
seen,  — 
Tycho    and    Kepler    bend     benignant    o'er 

thee, 

And  with  his  toy-like  tube  the   Floren 
tine,  — 


274 


BEFORE   THE   CURFEW 


He  at  whose  word  the  orb  that  bore  him 

shivered 

To  find  her  central  sovereignty  disowned, 
While  the  wan  lips  of  priest  and  pontiff 

quivered, 

Their  jargon   stilled,  their   Baal  diseu- 
throned. 

Flamsteed   and  Newton  look  with  brows 

unclouded, 
Their   strife   forgotten   with   its    faded 

scars,  — 
(Titans,  who  found  the  world  of  space  too 

crowded 

To   walk   in   peace    among  its    myriad 
stars). 

All  cluster  round  thee,  —  seers  of  earliest 


Persians,    loniaus,     Mizraim's     learned 

kings, 

From  the  dim  days  of  Shinar's  hoary  sages 
To  his  who  weighed  the  planet's  fluid 

rings. 

And  we,  for  whom  the  northern  heavens 

are  lighted, 
For  whom  the  storm  has  passed,  the  sun 

has  smiled, 
Our    clouds    all    scattered,  all   our   stars 

united, 

We  claim  thee,  clasp  thee,  like  a  long- 
lost  child. 

Fresh  from  the  spangled  vault's  o'er-arch- 

ing  splendor, 

Thy  lonely  pillar,  thy  revolving  dome, 
In  heartfelt  accents,  proud,  rejoicing,  ten 
der, 

We  bid  thee  welcome  to  thine  earthly 
home  ! 


TO  FREDERICK  HENRY  HEDGE 

AT  A  DINNER  GIVEN  HIM  ON  HIS 
EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY,  DECEMBER  12, 
1885 

With  a  bronze  statuette  of  John  of  Bologna's 
Mercury,  presented  by  a  few  friends. 

FIT  emblem  for  the  altar's  side, 
And  him  who  serves  its  daily  need, 

The  stay,  the  solace,  and  the  guide 
Of  mortal  men,  whate'er  his  creed  ! 


Flamen  or  Auspex,  Priest  or  Bonze, 
He  feeds  the  upward-climbing  fire, 

Still  teaching,  like  the  deathless  bronze, 
Man's  noblest  lesson,  — to  aspire. 

Hermes  lies  prone  by  fallen  Jove, 

Crushed  are  the  wheels  of  Krishna's  car, 

And  o'er  Dodona's  silent  grove 

Streams  the  white  ray  from  Bethlehem's 
star. 

Yet  snatched  from  Time's  relentless  clutch, 
A  godlike  shape,  that  human  hands 

Have  fired  with  Art's  electric  touch, 
The  herald  of  Olympus  stands. 

Ask  not  what  ore  the  furnace  knew; 

Love  mingled  with  the  flowing  mass, 
And  lends  its  own  unchanging  hue, 

Like  gold  in  Corinth's  molten  brass. 

Take  then  our  gift;  this  airy  form 
Whose  bronze  our  benedictions  gild, 

The  hearts  of  all  its  givers  warm 

With  love  by  freezing  years  unchilled. 

With  eye  undimmed,  with  strength  unworn, 
Still  toiling  in  your  Master's  field, 

Before  you  wave  the  growths  unshorn, 
Their  ripened  harvest  yet  to  yield. 

True  servant  of  the  Heavenly  Sire, 
To  you  our  tried  affection  clings, 

Bids  you  still  labor,  still  aspire, 

But  clasps  your  feet  and  steals  their 
wings. 


TO   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 

THIS  is  your  month,  the  month  of  "  perfect 

days," 

Birds  in  full  song  and  blossoms  all  ablaze. 
Nature     herself    your     earliest     welcome 

breathes, 
Spreads   every    leaflet,    every    bower    in- 

wreathes ; 

Carpets  her  paths  for  your  returning  feet, 
Puts  forth  her  best  your  coming  steps  to 

greet; 
And  Heaven  must  surely  find  the  earth  in 

tune 
When    Home,    sweet    Home,    exhales  the 

breath  of  June. 


TO   JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


These   blessed  days  are  waning  all    too 

fast, 
And  June's  bright    visions  mingling    with 

the  past; 

Lilacs  have  bloomed  and  faded,  and  the  rose 
Has  dropped  its  petals,  but  the  clover  blows, 
And  fills  its  slender  tubes  with  honeyed 

sweets; 
The    fields    are    pearled    with    milk-white 

inargarites ; 

The  dandelion,  which  you  sang  of  old, 
Has  lost  its    pride  of   place,  its  crown  of 

gold,  _ 
But    still     displays    its    feathery-mantled 

globe, 
Which    children's    breath    or    wandering 

winds  unrobe. 
These    were    your    humble    friends;    your 

opened  eyes 
Nature  had  trained    her  common  gifts  to 

prize ; 

Xot  Cam  nor  Isis  taught  you  to  despise 
Charles,  with  his  muddy  margin  and   the 

harsh, 
Plebeian  jrrasses  of  the  reek  in"-  marsh. 


The    joy  -  bells    ring,  —  the    tear  -  stained 

cheeks  unveil, 
While,  as  the  playwright  shifts  his  pictured 

scene, 
The    royal    mourner    crowns    his    second 

queen. 

From  Spain  to  Britain  is  a  goodly  stride,  — 

Madrid  and  London  long-stretched  leagues 
divide. 

What  if  I  send  him,  L(  L'ncle  S..  says  he," 

To  my  good  cousin  whom  he  calls  "  J.  B."  ? 

A   nation's    servants    go    where    they    are 
seal,  — 

lie  heard  his  Uncle's  orders,  and  he  went. 
By    what    enchantments,    what   alluring 
arts, 

Our    truthful   James    led    captive    British 
hearts,  — 

Whether  his  shrewdness  made  their  states 
men  halt, 

Or    if    his    learning    found    their    Dons  at 
fault, 

Or  if  his  virtue  was  a  strange  surprise, 

Or  if  his  wit  Hung  star-dust  in  their  eyes, — 


New    England's    home-bred    scholar,    well       Like  honest  Yankees  we  ean  simplv  guess; 

you  knew  But  that  he  did  it  all  must  needs  confess. 

Her  soil,  her  speech,  her  people,  through       England  herself  without  a  blush  may  claim 

Her  only  conqueror  since  the  Norman  came. 
And  loved  them  ever  with   the   love  that  Eight  years    an  exile  !      What  a    weary 

holds  while 

All  sweet,  fond   memories  in  its  fragrant      Since  first    our  herald  sought    the  mother 

folds. 
Though  far  and  wide  your  winged  words 

have  flown, 

Your  daily  presence  kept  you  all  our  own, 
Till,    with    a    sorrowing    sigh,    a    thrill    of 

pride, 
We  heard  your  summons,  and  you  left  our 

side 
For  larger  duties  and  for  tasks  untried. 

How  pleased  the  Spaniards  for  a  while  to 

claim 

This  frank  Hidalgo  with  the  liquid  name, 
Who  stored  their  classics  on  his  crowded 

shelves 
And    loved    their    Calderon   as    they   did 

themselves  ! 
Before    his  eyes  what    changing   pageants 

pass  ! 
The    bridal    feast    how   near   the    funeral 

mass  ! 


The    death-stroke     falls,  —  the    Misereres 


His  snow-white  flag  no  churlish  wrong  has 

soiled,  — 
He  left  unchallenged,  he  returns  unspoiled. 

Here    let  us    keep    him,  here    he  saw  the 

light,  — 

His  genius,  wisdom,  wit,  are  ours  by  right; 
And  if  we  lose  him  our  lament  will  be 
We  have  "five  hundred" —  not  "as  good 

as  he." 


TO  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

ON  HIS  EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY 
lSS7 

FRIEND,  whom  thy  fourscore  winters  leave 

more  dear 
Than  when  life's    roseate  summer  on  thy 

cheek 


276 


BEFORE  THE   CURFEW 


Burned  in  the  flush  of  manhood's  manliest 

year, 

Lonely,  how  lonely  !  is  the  snowy  peak 
Thy   feet   have   reached,    and   mine    have 

climbed  so  near  ! 
Close  on  thy  footsteps  'mid  the  landscape 

drear 
I  stretch  my  hand  thine  answering  grasp  to 

seek, 
Warm  with  the  love  no  rippling   rhymes 

can  speak  ! 
Look  backward  !     From  thy  lofty  height 

survey 
Thy    years   of   toil,  of   peaceful   victories 

won, 

Of  dreams  made  real,  largest   hopes  out 
run  ! 
Look    forward  !      Brighter    than    earth's 

morning  ray 
Streams  the  pure  light  of  Heaven's  unset- 

ting  sun, 
The   unclouded   dawn   of   life's    immortal 

day! 


PRELUDE  TO  A  VOLUME 
PRINTED  IN  RAISED  LET 
TERS  FOR  THE  BLIND 

DEAR   friends,   left   darkling   in  the  long 

eclipse 
That     veils     the    noonday,  —  you     whose 

finger-tips 

A  meaning  in  these  ridgy  leaves  can  find 
Where  ours  go  stumbling,  senseless,  help 
less,  blind, 

This  wreath  of  verse  how  dare  I  offer  you 
To  whom  the   garden's   choicest  gifts  are 

due? 

The  hues  of  all  its  glowing  beds  are  ours, 
Shall  you  not  claim  its   sweetest-smelling 
flowers  ? 

Nay,  those  I  have  I  bring  you,  —  at  their 
birth 

Life's  cheerful  sunshine  warmed  the  grate 
ful  earth; 

If  my  rash  boyhood  dropped  some  idle 
seeds, 

And  here  and  there  you  light  on  saucy 
weeds 

Among  the  fairer  growths,  remember  still 

Song  comes  of  grace,  and  not  of  human 
will : 


We  get  a  jarring  note  when  most  we  try, 
Then  strike  the  chord  we  know  not  how  or 

why; 

Our  stately  verse  with  too  aspiring  art 
Oft    overshoots    and    fails    to    reach    the 

heart, 
While  the  rude  rhyme  one    human   throb 

endears 
Turns  grief  to  smiles,  and  softens  mirth  to 

tears. 

Kindest  of  critics,  ye  whose  fingers  read, 
From    Nature's    lesson    learn    the   poet's 

creed; 

The  queenly  tulip  flaunts  in  robes  of  flame, 
The  wayside  seedling   scarce  a  tint   may 

claim, 

Yet  may  the  lowliest  leaflets  that  unfold 
A  dewdrop  fresh  from  heaven's  own  chalice 

hold. 


BOSTON    TO    FLORENCE 

Sent  to  "  The  Philological  Circle  "  of  Flor 
ence  for  its  meeting-  in  commemoration  of 
Dante,  January  27,  1881,  the  anniversary  of 
his  first  condemnation. 

PROUD  of  her  clustering  spires,  her  new- 
built  towers, 
Our  Venice,  stolen  from  the  slumbering 

sea, 
A    sister's   kindliest   greeting  wafts   to 

thee, 
Rose   of   Val   d'   Arno,    queen   of  all   its 

flowers  ! 

Thine  exile's  shrine  thy  sorrowing  love  em 
bowers, 
Yet  none  with  truer  homage  bends  the 

knee, 
Or  stronger  pledge  of  fealty  brings,  than 

we, 
Whose    poets    make   thy    dead   Immortal 

ours. 
Lonely  the  height,  but  ah,  to  heaven  how 

near  ! 
Dante,  whence  flowed  that  solemn  verse 

of  thine 

Like  the  stern  river  from  its  Apennine 
Whose  name  the  far-off  Scythian  thrilled 

with  fear: 
Now  to  all  lands  thy  deep-toned  voice  is 

dear, 

And    every   language   knows   the    Song 
Divine  ! 


HARVARD    COLLEGE   ANNIVERSARY 


277 


AT  THE    UNITARIAN   FESTIVAL 

MARCH    8,    l882 

THE  waves  unbuild  the  wasting  shore ; 

Where   mountains   towered   the  billows 

sweep, 
Yet  still  their  borrowed  spoils  restore, 

And  build  new  empires  from  the  deep. 
So  while  the  floods  of  thought  lay  waste 

The  proud  domain  of  priestly  creeds, 
Its  heaven-appointed  tides  will  haste 

To  plant  new  homes  for  human  needs. 
Be  ours  to  mark  with  hearts  unchilled 

The  change  an  outworn  church  deplores; 
The  legend  sinks,  but  Faith  shall  build 

A  fairer  throne  on  new-found  shores. 


POEM 

FOR  THE  TWO  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTIETH 
ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  FOUNDING  OF 
HARVARD  COLLEGE 

TWICE  had  the  mellowing  sun  of  autumn 

crowned 

The  hundredth  circle  of  his  yearly  round, 
When,  as  we  meet  to-day,  our  fathers  met: 
That  joyous  gathering  who  can  e'er  forget, 
When    Harvard's   nurslings,  scattered  far 

and  wide, 
Through    mart    and    village,    lake's    and 

ocean's  side, 
Came,  with    one    impulse,    one    fraternal 

throng, 
And    crowned    the    hours    with    banquet, 

speech,  and  song  ? 

Once  more  revived  in  fancy's  magic  glass, 
I  see  in  state  the  long  procession  pass : 
Tall,  courtly,  leader  as  by  right  divine, 
Winthrop,  our  Winthrop,  rules    the    mar 
shalled  line, 

Still  seen  in  front,  as  on  that  far-off  day 
His  ribboned  baton    showed    the  column's 


Not  all  are  gone  who  marched  in  manly 
pride 

And  waved  their  truncheons  at  their  lead 
er's  side; 

Gray,  Lowell,  Dixwell,  who  his  empire 
shared, 

These  to  be  with  us  envious  Time  lias 
spared. 


Few  are  the  faces,  so  familiar  then, 

Our  eyes  still   meet  amid   the    haunts    of 

men; 

Scarce  one  of  all  the  living  gathered  there, 
Whose  imthiimed  locks  betrayed  a  silver 

hair, 
Greets   us   to-day,  and  yet   we   seem   the 

same 
As  our  own  sires  and  grandsires,  save  in 

name. 
There  are  the  patriarchs,  looking  vaguely 

round 
For    classmates'    faces,    hardly   known    if 

found ; 

See  the  cold  brow  that  rules  the  busy  mart; 
Close  at  its  side  the  pallid  son  of  art, 
Whose     purchased    skill    with    borrowed 

meaning  clothes, 
And    stolen    hues,    the    smirking   face    he 

loathes. 

Here  is  the  patient  scholar;  in  his  looks 
You  read  the  titles  of  his  learned  books; 
What  classic  lore  those  spidery  crow's-feet 

speak  ! 
What   problems    figure    on   that    wrinkled 

cheek  ! 
For   never   thought  but   left   its  stiffened 

trace, 

Its  fossil  footprint,  on  the  plastic  face, 
As  the  swift  record  of  a  raindrop  stands, 
Fixed  on  the  tablet  of  the  hardening  sands. 
On  every  face  as  on  the  written  page 
Each  year  renews  the  autograph  of  age; 
One  trait  alone  may  wasting  years  defy,  — 
The  lire  still  lingering  in  the  poet's  eye, 
While  Hope,  the  siren,  sings  her  sweetest 

strain, — 
Aron  omnis  mortar  is  its  proud  refrain. 

Sadly  we  gaze  upon  the  vacant  chair; 

He  who  should  claim  its  honors  is  not 
there,  — 

Otis,  whose  lips  the  listening  crowd  en 
thrall 

That  press  and  pack  the  floor  of  Boston's 
hall. 

But  Kirkland  smiles,  released  from  toil 
and  care 

Since  the  silk  mantle  younger  shoulders 
wear,  — 

Quincy's,  whose  spirit  breathes  the  self 
same  fire 

That  filled  the  bosom  of  his  youthful  sire, 

Who  for  the  altar  bore  the  kindled  torch 

To  freedom's  temple,  dying  in  its  porch. 


278 


BEFORE   THE   CURFEW 


Three  grave  professions  in  their  sons  appear, 
Whose  words  well  studied  all  well  pleased 

will  hear: 

Palfrey,  ordained  in  varied  walks  to  shine, 
Statesman,  historian,  critic,  and  divine; 
Solid  and  square  behold  majestic  Shaw, 
A  mass  of  wisdom  and  a  mine  of  law; 
Warren,  whose   arm  the   doughtiest  war 
riors  fear, 

Asks  of  the  startled  crowd  to  lend  its  ear,  — 
Proud  of  his  calling,  him  the  world  loves 

best, 
Not  as  the  coming,  but  the  parting  guest. 

Look  on  that  form,  —  with  eye  dilating  scan 
The  stately  mould  of  nature's  kingliest  man  ! 
Tower-like  he  stands  in  life's  unf aded  prime ; 
Ask  you  his  name  ?  None  asks  a  second 

time  ! 
He  from  the  land  his  outward  semblance 

takes, 
Where  storm-swept  mountains  watch  o'er 

slumbering  lakes. 

See  in  the  impress  which  the  body  wears 
How  its  imperial  might  the  soul  declares: 
The  forehead's  large  expansion,  lofty,  wide, 
That  locks  unsilvered  vainly  strive  to  hide ; 
The  lines  of  thought  that  plough  the  sober 

cheek; 

Lips  that  betray  their  wisdom  ere  they  speak 
In  tones  like  answers  from  Dodona's  grove ; 
An  eye  like  Juno's  when  she  frowns  on  Jove. 
I  look  and  wonder;  will  he  be  content  — 
This   man,    this   monarch,  for    the  purple 

meant  — 

The  meaner  duties  of  his  tribe  to  share, 
Clad   in   the   garb   that   common  mortals 

wear  ? 
Ah,   wild    Ambition,    spread    thy   restless 

wings, 
Beneath  whose  plumes  the  hidden  oestrum 

stings; 
Thou  whose  bold  flight  would  leave  earth's 

vulgar  crowds, 

And  like  the  eagle  soar  above  the  clouds, 
Must  feel  the  pang  that  fallen  angels  know 
When  the  red  lightning  strikes  thee  from 

below ! 

Less  bronze,  more  silver,  mingles   in   the 

mould 

Of  him  whom  next  my  roving  eyes  behold; 
His,  more  the  scholar's  than  the  statesman's 

face, 
Proclaims  him  boru  of  academic  race. 


Weary  his  look,  as  if  an  aching  brain 
Left  on  his  brow  the  frozen  prints  of  pain; 
His    voice   far-reaching,    grave,   sonorous, 

owns 

A  shade  of  sadness  in  its  plaintive  tones, 
Yet  when  its  breath  some  loftier  thought 

inspires 

Glows  with  a  heat  that  every  bosom  fires. 
Such  Everett  seems;  no  chance-sown  wild 

flower  knows 
The  full-blown  charms  of  culture's  double 

rose,  — 

Alas,  how  soon,  by  death's  unsparing  frost, 
Its  bloom  is  faded  and  its  fragrance  lost  ! 

Two  voices,  only  two,  to  earth  belong, 

Of   all    whose   accents   met   the   listening 

throng: 
Winthrop,  alike  for  speech  and  guidance 

framed, 

On  that  proud  day  a  twofold  duty  claimed; 
One  other  yet,  —  remembered  or  forgot,  — 
Forgive  my  silence  if  I  name  him  not. 
Can  I  believe  it  ?     I,  whose  youthful  voice 
Claimed  a  brief  gamut,  —  notes  not  over 

choice,  — 

Stood  undismayed  before  the  solemn  throng, 
And  propria  voce  sung  that  saucy  song 
Which   even   in    memory   turns   my   soul 

aghast,  — 
Felix  audacia  was  the  verdict  cast. 

What  were  the  glory  of  these  festal  days 
Shorn  of  their  grand  illumination's  blaze  ? 
Night  comes  at  last  with  all  her  starry  train 
To  find  a  light  in  every  glittering  pane. 
From  "  Harvard's  "  windows  see  the  sudden 

flash,  — 
Old  "  Massachusetts  "  glares  through  every 

sash ; 
From  wall  to  wall  the  kindling  splendors 

run 
Till  all  is  glorious  as  the  noonday  sun. 

How  to  the  scholar's  mind  each  object 
brings 

What  some  historian  tells,  some  poet  sings  ! 

The  good  gray  teacher  whom  we  all  re 
vered  — 

Loved,  honored,  laughed  at,  and  by  fresh 
men  feared, 

As  from  old  "  Harvard,"  where  its  light 
began, 

From  hall  to  hall  the  clustering  splendors 
ran  — 


HARVARD    COLLEGE   ANNIVERSARY 


Took  down  his  well-worn  JEschylus  and 
read, 

Lit  by  the  rays  a  thousand  tapers  shed, 

How  the  swift  herald  crossed  the  leagues 
between 

Mycenae's  monarch  and  his  faithless  queen; 

And  thus  he  read,  —  my  verse  but  ill  dis 
plays 

The  Attic  picture,  clad  in  modern  phrase: 

On  Ida's  summit  flames  the  kindling  pile,   • 
And  Lemnos  answers  from  hi*  rocky  isle; 
From  Athos  next  it  climbs  the  reddening  skies, 
Thence  where  the  watch-towers   of  Macistus 

rise. 

The  sentries  of  Mesapius  in  their  turn 
Bid  the  dry  heath  in  high-piled  masses  burn, 
Cithceron's  crag  the  crimson  billows  stain, 
Far  sEgiplanctus  joins  the  fiery  train. 
Thus  the  swift  courier  through  the  pathless 

night 

Has  gained  at  length  the  Arachncean  height, 
Whence  (he  glad  tidings,  borne  on  wings  of 

flame, 
"  Ilium  has  fallen  !  "  reach  the  royal  dame. 

So  ends  the  day;  before  the  midnight  stroke 
The    lights    expiring    cloud     the    air    with 

smoke; 
While  these  the  toil  of  younger  hands  ein- 

pi°y> 

The  slumbering  Grecian  dreams  of  smoul 
dering  Troy. 

As  to  that  hour  with  backward  steps  I  turn, 
Midway  I  pause;  behold  a  funeral  urn  ! 
Ah,  sad  memorial  !  known  but  all  too  well 
The  tale  which  thus  its  golden  letters  tell: 

This  dust,  once  breathing,  changed  its  joyous 

life 
For   toil   and   hunger,    wounds    and   mortal 

strife  ; 
Love,    friendship,    learning's    all-prevailing 

charms, 

For  the  cold  bivouac  and  the  clash  of  arms. 
The  cause  of  freedom  won,  a  race  enslaved 
Called  back  to  manhood,  and  a  nation  saved, 
These   sons   of   Harvard,  falling   ere   their 

prime, 
Leave  their  proud  memory  to  the  coming  time. 

While    in  their  still  retreats  our  scholars 

turn 
The  mildewed  pages  of  the  past,  to  learn 


With  endless  labor  of  the  sleepless  brain 
What  once  Las  been  and  ne'er  shall  be 

again, 

We  reap  the  harvest  of  their  ceaseless  toil 
And  find  a  fragrance  in  their  midnight  oil. 
But  let  a  purblind  mortal  dare  the  task 
The  embryo  future  of  itself  to  ask, 
,   The    world  reminds    him,  with  a  scornful 

laugh, 
That   times  have  changed  since  Prospero 

broke  his  staff. 

Could  all  the  wisdom  of  the  schools  foretell 
The  dismal  hour  when  Lisbon  shook  and 

fell, 
Or  name  the  shuddering  night  that  toppled 

down 
Our    sister's    pride,  beneath  whose    mural 

crown 

Scarce  had  the  scowl  forgot  its  angry  lines, 
When    earth's  blind    prisoners    fired   their 

fatal  mines  ? 
Xew  realms,  new  worlds,  exulting  Science 

claims, 

Still  the  dim  future  unexplored  remains; 
Her  trembling  scales  the  far-off  planet 

weigh, 

Her  torturing  prisms  its  elements  betray, — 
i   We    know  what    ores    the    fires    of    Sirius 

melt, 

;   What  vaporous  metals  gild  Orion's  belt; 
;   Angels,  archangels,  may  have  yet  to  learn 
Those    hidden    truths    our     heaven-taught 

eyes  discern; 
i   Yet    vain  is   Knowledge,   with    her  mystic 

wand, 

To  pierce  the  cloudy  screen  and  read  be 
yond  ; 
Once  to  the    silent    stars    the    fates    were 

known, 
To  us  they  tell  no  secrets  but  their  own. 

At  Israel's  altar  still  we  humbly  bow, 
But  where,  oh  where,  are  Israel's  prophets 

now  ? 

Where  is  the  sibyl  with  her  hoarded  leaves  ? 
Where  is  the  charm  the  weird  enchantress 

weaves  ? 

Xo  croaking  raven  turns  the  auspex  pale, 
Xo  reeking  altars  tell  the  morrow's  tale; 
The  measured  footsteps  of  the  Fates  are 

dumb, 

Unseen,  unheard,  unheralded,  they  come, 
Prophet  and  priest  and  all  their  following 

fail. 
Who  then  is  left  to  rend  the  future's  veil  ? 


280 


BEFORE  THE   CURFEW 


Who  but  the  poet,  he  whose  nicer  sense 
No  film  can  baffle  with  its  slight  defence, 
Whose  finer  vision  marks  the  waves  that 

stray, 

Felt,  but  unseen,  beyond  the  violet  ray  ?  — 
Who,  while  the  storm-wind  waits  its  dark 
ening  shroud, 
Foretells    the    tempest    ere   he   sees    the 

cloud,  — 

Stays  not  for  time  his  secrets  to  reveal, 
But  reads  his  message  ere  he  breaks  the 

seal. 

So  Mantua's  bard  foretold  the  coming  day 
Ere  Bethlehem's  infant  in  the  manger  lay; 
The  promise  trusted  to  a  mortal  tongue 
Found   listening    ears   before    the   angels 

sung. 
So  while  his  load  the  creeping  pack-horse 

galled, 
While  inch   by   inch   the   dull    canal-boat 

crawled, 

Darwin  beheld  a  Titan  from  "  afar 
Drag  the  slow  barge  or  drive  the  rapid  car," 
That  panting  giant  fed  by  air  and  flame, 
The  mightiest  forges  task  their  strength  to 

tame. 

Happy  the  poet !  him  no  tyrant  fact 
Holds  in  its   clutches   to   be  chained   and 

racked ; 

Him  shall  no  mouldy  document  convict, 
No  stern  statistics  gravely  contradict; 
No  rival  sceptre  threats  his  airy  throne; 
He  rules  o'er  shadows,  but  he  reigns  alone. 
Shall  I  the  poet's  broad  dominion  claim 
Because  you  bid  me  wear  his  sacred  name 
For  these  few  moments  ?     Shall  I  boldly 

clash 

My  flint  and  steel,  and  by  the  sudden  flash 
Read  the  fair  vision  which  my  soul  descries 
Through  the  wide  pupils  of  its  wondering 

eyes  ? 

List  then  awhile ;  the  fifty  years  have  sped ; 
The  third  full  century's  opened  scroll  is 

spread, 

Blank  to  all  eyes  save  his  who  dimly  sees 
The   shadowy   future   told   in   words   like 

these : 

How  strange  the  prospect  to  my  sight  ap 
pears, 

Changed  by  the  busy  hands  of  fifty  years  ! 

Full  well  I  know  our  ocean-salted  Charles, 

Filling  and  emptying  through  the  sands 
and  marls 


That  wall  his  restless  stream  on  either  bank, 
Not  all  unlovely  when  the  sedges  rank 
Lend  their   coarse   veil   the  sable  ooze  to 

hide 
That   bares  its  blackness  with  the  ebbing 

tide. 

In  other  shapes  to  my  illumined  eyes 
Those  ragged  margins  of  our  stream  arise: 
Through  walls  of  stone  the  sparkling  wa 
ters  flow, 

In  clearer  depths  the  golden  sunsets  glow, 
On  purer   waves   the    lamps   of   midnight 

gleam, 

That  silver  o'er  the  unpolluted  stream. 
Along  his  shores  what  stately  temples  rise, 
What  spires,  what  turrets,  print  the  shad 
owed  skies  ! 

Our  smiling  Mother  sees  her  broad  domain 
Spread    its    tall    roofs   along   the    western 

plain ; 
Those  blazoned  windows'  blushing  glories 

tell 
Of  grateful  hearts  that  loved  her  long  and 

well ; 

Yon  gilded  dome  that  glitters  in  the  sun 
Was  Dives'  gift, — alas,  his  only  one  ! 
These  buttressed  walls  enshrine  a  banker's 

name, 
That    hallowed    chapel    hides    a    miser's 

shame ; 
Their   wealth    they   left,  —  their   memory 

cannot  fade 
Though  age  shall  crumble  every  stone  they 

laid. 
Great  lord  of  millions,  —  let  me  call  thee 

great, 
Since   countless   servants   at    thy   bidding 

wait,  — 

Richesse  oblige :  no  mortal  must  be  blind 
To  all  but  self,  or  look  at  human  kind 
Laboring  and  suffering,  —  all  its  want  and 

woe,  — 
Through  sheets   of   crystal,  as  a   pleasing 

show 
That  makes  life    happier   for  the  chosen 

few 

Duty  for  whom  is  something  not  to  do. 
When  thy  last  page  of  life  at  length  is 

filled, 
What  shall  thine  heirs  to  keep  thy  memory 

build  ? 
Will  piles  of  stone  in  Auburn's  mournful 

shade 
Save  from  neglect  the  spot  where  thou  art 

laid  ? 


HARVARD    COLLEGE   ANNIVERSARY 


281 


Nay,  deem  not  thus;  the  sauntering  stran 
ger's  eye 
Will  pass  unmoved  thy  columned  tombstone 

by, 

No  memory  wakened,  not  a  teardrop  shed, 

Thy  name  uncared  for  and  thy  date  unread. 
But  if  thy  record  thou  indeed  dost  prize, 

Bid  from  the  soil  some  stately  temple 
rise, — 

Some  hall  of  learning,  some  memorial 
shrine, 

With  names  long  honored  to  associate 
thine: 

So  shall  thy  famo  outlive  thy  shattered 
Lust 

When  all  around  thee  slumber  in  the  dust. 

Thus  England's  Henry  lives  in  Eton's 
towers, 

Saved  from  the  spoil  oblivion's  gulf  de 
vours; 

Our  later  records  with  as  fair  a  fame 

Have  wreathed  each  uncrowned  benefac 
tor's  name; 

The  walls  they  reared  the  memories  still 
retain 

That  churchyard  marbles  try  to  keep  in 
vain. 

In  vain  the  delving  antiquary  tries 

To  find  the  tomb  where  generous  Harvard 
lies: 

Here,  here,  his  lasting  monument  is  found, 

Where  every  spot  is  consecrated  ground  ! 

O'er  Stoughton's  dust  the  crumbling  stone 
decays, 

Fast  fade  its  lines  of  lapidary  praise; 

There  the  wild  bramble  weaves  its  ragged 
nets, 

There  the  dry  lichen  spreads  its  gray  ro 
settes; 

Still  in  yon  walls  his  memory  lives  un 
spent, 

Nor  asks  a  braver,  nobler  monument. 

Tims  Hollis  lives,  and  Holden,  honored, 
praised, 

And  good  Sir  Matthew,  in  the  halls  they 
raised ; 

Thus  live  the  worthies  of  these  later  times, 

Who  shine  in  deeds,  less  brilliant,  grouped 
in  rhymes. 

Say,  shall  the  Muse  with  faltering  steps 
retreat, 

Or  dare  these  names  in  rhythmic  form  re 
peat  ? 

Why  not  as  boldly  as  from  Homer's  lips 

The  long  array  of  Argive  battle-ships  ? 


When  o'er  our   graves  a   thousand  years 

have  past 
(If  to  such  date  our  threatened  globe  shall 

last) 
These  classic  precincts,  myriad  feet  have 

pressed, 
Will  show  on  high,  in  beauteous  garlands 

dressed, 
Those  honored  names  that  grace  our  later 

day,  — 
Weld,   Matthews,    Sever,  Thayer,   Austin, 

Gray, 
Sears,  Phillips,   Lawrence,    Hemenway,  — 

to  the  list 
Add    Sanders,  Sibley,  —  all  the  Muse  has 

missed. 

Once  more  I  turn  to  read  the  pictured  page 
Bright  with  the  promise  of  the  coming  age. 
Ye  unborn  sons  of  children  vet  unborn, 
Whose  youthful  eyes  shall  greet  that  far-off 

morn, 

Blest  are  those  eyes  that  all  undimmed  be 
hold 

The  sights  so  longed  for  by  the  wise  of  old. 
From    high-arched    alcoves,    through    re 
sounding  halls, 

Clad  in  full  rubes  majestic  Science  calls, 
Tireless,  unsleeping,  still  at  Nature's  feet, 
Whate'er  she  utters  fearless  to  repeat, 
Her  lips  at  last  from  every  cramp  released 
That  Israel's  prophet  caught  from  Egypt's 

priest. 

I  see  the  statesman,  firm,  sagacious,  bold, 
For    life's    long    conflict    cast    in    amplest 

mould ; 

Not  his  to  clamor  with  the  senseless  throng 
That  shouts  unshained,  "  Our  party,  right 

or  wrong," 

But  in  the  patriot's  never-ending  fight 
To  side  with  Truth,  who  changes  wrong  to 

right. 

I  see  the  scholar;  in  that  wondrous  time 
Men,    women,    children,    all    can   write    in 

rhyme. 
These  four  brief  lines  addressed  to  youth 

inclined 
To  idle  rhyming  in  his  notes  I  find: 

Who  writes  in  verse  that  should  have  writ  in 

prose 

Is  like  a  traveller  walking  on  his  toes; 
Happy  the  rhymester  who  in  time  has  found 
The   heels   he  lifts  were   made  to  touch  the 

ground. 


282 


BEFORE   THE   CURFEW 


I  see  gray  teachers,  —  on  their  work  intent, 
Their  lavished  lives,  in  endless  labor  spent, 
Had  closed  at  last  in  age  and  penury 

wrecked, 

Martyrs,  not  burned,  but  frozen  in  neglect, 
Save  for  the  generous  hands  that  stretched 

in  aid 

Of  worn-out  servants  left  to  die  half  paid. 
Ah,  many  a  year  will  pass,  I  thought,  ere 

we 
Such  kindly  forethought   shall   rejoice  to 

see,  — 

Monarchs  are  mindful  of  the  sacred  debt 
That  cold  republics  hasten  to  forget. 

I  see  the  priest,  —  if   such   a  name  he 

bears 
Who  without   pride   his   sacred   vestment 

wears ; 

And  while  the  symbols  of  his  tribe  I  seek 
Thus  my  first  impulse  bids  me  think  and 

speak: 

Let  not  the  mitre  England's  prelate  wears 
Next  to  the  crown  whose  regal   pomp  it 

shares, 
Though  low   before   it  courtly   Christians 

bow, 
Leave  its  red  mark  on  Younger  England's 

brow. 

We  love,  we  honor,  the  maternal  dame, 
But  let  her  priesthood  wear  a  modest  name, 
While  through  the  waters  of  the  Pilgrim's 

bay 
A  new-born  Mayflower  shows  her  keels  the 

way. 
Too   old   grew   Britain   for   her   mother's 

beads,  — 
Must  we  be  necklaced  with  her  children's 

creeds  ? 

Welcome  alike  in  surplice  or  in  gown 
The  loyal  lieges  of  the  Heavenly  Crown  ! 
We   greet  with    cheerful,  not  submissive, 

mien 
A  sister  church,  but  not  a  mitred  Queen  ! 

A   few   brief   flutters,    and   the   unwilling 
Muse, 

Who  feared  the  flight  she  hated  to  refuse, 

Shall  fold  the  wings  whose   gayer  plumes 
are  shed, 

Here  where  at  first  her  half-fledged    pin 
ions  spread. 
Well  I  remember  in  the  long  ago 

How  in  the  forest  shades  of  Fontainebleau, 


Strained  through  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  cell, 
One   crystal  drop  with  measured  cadence 

fell. 

Still,  as  of  old,  forever  bright  and  clear, 
The  fissured  cavern  drops  its  wonted  tear, 
And  wondrous  virtue,  simple  folk  aver, 
Lies  in  that  teardrop  of  la  roclie  qui  pleure. 

Of  old  I  wandered  by  the  river's  side 
Between  whose  banks  the  mighty  waters 

glide, 

Where  vast  Niagara,  hurrying  to  its  fall, 
Builds  and  unbuilds  its  ever-tumbling  wall; 
Oft  in  my  dreams  I  hear  the  rush  and  roar 
Of  battling  floods,  and  feel  the  trembling 

shore, 

As  the  huge  torrent,  girded  for  its  leap, 
With  bellowing  thunders  plunges  down  the 

steep. 

Not   less   distinct,   from   memory's  pic 
tured  urn, 

The  gray  old  rock,  the  leafy  woods,  return; 
Robed  in  their  pride  the  lofty  oaks  appear, 
And  once  again  with  quickened  sense  I 

hear, 
Through  the  low  murmur   of   the   leaves 

that  stir, 
The  tinkling  teardrop  of  la  roclie  qui  pleure. 

So  when  the  third  ripe  century  stands  com 
plete, 

As  once  again  the  sons  of  Harvard  meet, 

Rejoicing,  numerous  as  the  seashore  sands, 

Drawn  from  all  quarters,  —  farthest  dis 
tant  lands, 

Where  through  the  reeds  the  scaly  saurian 
steals, 

Where  cold  Alaska  feeds  her  floundering 
seals, 

Where  Plymouth,  glorying,  wears  her  iron 
crown, 

Where  Sacramento  sees  the  suns  go  down ; 

Nay,  from  the  cloisters  whence  the  refluent 
tide 

Wafts  their  pale  students  to  our  Mother's 
side,  — 

Mid  all  the  tumult  that  the  day  shall 
bring, 

While  all  the  echoes  shout,  and  roar,  and 
ring, 

These  tinkling  lines,  oblivion's  easy  prey, 

Once  more  emerging  to  the  light  of  day, 

Not  all  unpleasing  to  the  listening  ear 

Shall  wake  the  memories  of  this  bygone 
year, 


HARVARD    COLLEGE   ANNIVERSARY 


283 


Heard  as  I  hear  the  measured  drops  that 

How 
From  the  gray  rock  of  wooded  Fontaine- 

bleau. 

Yet,  ere  I  leave,  one  loving  word  for  all 
Those    fresh    young1    lives    that    wait    our 

Mother's  call: 
One  gift  is  yours,  kind  Nature's  richest 

dower,  — 
Youth,  the  fair  bud  that  holds  life's  opening 

flower, 

Full  of  high  hopes  no  coward  doubts  en 
chain, 

With  all  the  future  throbbing  in  its  brain, 
And  mightiest  instincts  which  the  beating 

heart 

Fills  with  the  fire  its  burning  waves  impart. 
O  joyous  youth,  whose  glory  is  to  dare,  — 
Thy  foot  firm  planted  on  the  lowest  stair, 
Thine  eye  uplifted  to  the  loftiest  height 
Where  Fame  stands  beckoning  in  the  rosy 

light, 
Thanks   for  thy   flattering   tales,  thy  fond 

deceits, 

Thy  loving  lies,  thy  cheerful  smiling  cheats  ! 
Nature's  rash  promise  every  day  is  broke,  — 
A  thousand  acorns  breed  a  single  oak, 
The  myriad  blooms  that  make  the  orchard 

gay 

In  barren  beauty  throw  their  lives  away; 
Yet   shall   we   quarrel   with    the    sap    that 

yields 

The  painted  blossoms  which  adorn  the  fields, 
When  the  fair  orchard  wears  its  May-day 

suit 

Of  pink-white  petals,  for  its  scanty  fruit  ? 
Thrice    happy    hours,    in    hope's    illusion 

dressed, 

In  fancy's  cradle  nurtured  and  caressed, 
Though  rich  the  spoils  that  ripening  years 

may  bring, 

To  thee  the  dewdrops  of  the  Orient  cling,  — 
Not  all  the  dye-stuff s  from  the  vats  of  truth 
Can  match  the  rainbow  on  the  robes  of 

youth  ! 

Dear  unborn  children,  to  our  Mother's  trust 
We  leave  you,  fearless,  when  we  lie  in  dust: 
While  o'er  these  walls  the  Christian  banner 

waves 
From  hallowed  lips    shall    flow   the    truth 

that  saves; 
While  o'er  those  portals  Veritas  you  read 


No  church  shall  bind  you  with  its  human 

creed. 
Take  from  the  past  the  best  its  toil  has 

won, 

But  learn  betimes  its  slavish  ruts  to  shun. 
Pass  the  old  tree  whose  withered  leaves  are 

shed, 

Quit  the  old  paths  that  error  loved  to  tread, 
And  a  new  wreath  of  Hying  blossoms  seek, 
A  narrower  pathway  up  a  loftier  peak; 
Lose  not  your  reverence,  but  unmanly  fear 
Leave  far  behind  you,  all  who  enter  here  ! 

As  once  of  old  from  Ida's  lofty  height 
The  flaming  signal  flashed  across  the  night, 
So  Harvard's  beacon  sheds  its  unspent  rays 
Till  every  watch-tower  shows  its  kindling 

blaze. 
Caught  from  a  spark  and  fanned  by  every 

gale, 

A  brighter  radiance  gilds  the  roofs  of  Yale; 
Amherst  and  Williams  bid  their  flambeaus 

shine, 
And  Bowdoin  answers  through  her  groves 

of  pine; 
O'er  Princeton's  sands  the  far  reflections 

steal, 
Where  mighty  Edwards  stamped  his  iron 

heel; 
Nay,  on   the   hill  where  old   beliefs    were 

bound 
Fast  as  if  Styx  had  girt  them  nine   times 

round, 
Bursts   such  a  light  that  trembling  souls 

inquire 

If  the  whole  church  of  Calvin  is  on  fire  ! 
Well  may  they  ask,  for  what  so  brightly 

burns 

As  a  dry  creed  that  nothing  ever  learns  ? 
Thus  link  by  link  is  knit  the  flaming  chain 
Lit  by  the    torch  of   Harvard's   hallowed 

plain. 

Thy  son,  thy  servant,  dearest  Mother  mine, 
Lays  this  poor  offering  on  thy  holy  shrine, 
An  autumn  leaflet  to  the  wild  winds  tost, 
Touched  by  the  finger  of  November's  frost, 
With  sweet,  sad  memories  of  that  earlier 

day, 

And  all  that  listened  to  my  first-born  lay, 
With  grateful  heart  this  glorious  morn  I 

see,  — 
Would   that  my  tribute  worthier  were  of 

thee  ! 


284 


BEFORE  THE   CURFEW 


POST-PRANDIAL 

PHI   BETA   KAPPA 

WENDELL    PHILLIPS,    ORATOR;     CHARLES     GOD 
FREY   LELAND,  POET 

iSSi 

"THE   Dutch  have   taken  Holland,"  — so 

the  school-boys  used  to  say; 
The  Dutch  have  taken  Harvard,  —  no  doubt 

of  that  to-day  ! 
For  the  Wendells  were  low  Dutchmen,  and 

all  their  vrows  were  Vans; 
Aud  the  Breitmauns  are  high  Dutchmen, 

and  here  is  honest  Hans. 

Mynheers,  you  both  are  welcome  !  Fair 
cousin  Wendell  P., 

Our  ancestors  were  dwellers  beside  the 
Zuyder  Zee; 

Both  Grotius  and  Erasmus  were  country 
men  of  we, 

And  Vondel  was  our  namesake,  though  he 
spelt  it  with  a  V. 

It  is  well  old  Evert  Jansen  sought  a  dwell 
ing  over  sea 

On  the  margin  of  the  Hudson,  where  he 
sampled  you  and  me 

Through  our  grandsires  and  great-grand- 
sires,  for  you  would  n't  quite  agree 

With  the  steady-going  burghers  along  the 
Zuyder  Zee. 

Like  our  Motley's  John  of  Barnveld,  you 

have  always  been  inclined 
To  speak,  —  well,  —  somewhat  frankly,  — 

to  let  us  know  your  mind, 
And  the  Mynheers  would  have  told  you  to 

be  cautious  what  you  said, 
Or  else  that  silver  tongue  of  yours  might 

cost  your  precious  head. 

But  we  're  very  glad  you  've  kept  it;  it  was 

always  Freedom's  own, 
And  whenever  Reason  chose  it  she  found 

a  royal  throne; 
You  have  whacked  us  with  your  sceptre; 

our  backs  were  little  harmed, 
And  while  we  rubbed  our  bruises  we  owned 

we  had  been  charmed. 


And  you,  our  quasi  Dutchman,  what  wel 
come  should  be  yours 

For  all  the  wise  prescriptions  that  work 
your  laughter-cures  ? 

"  Shake  before  taking  "  ?  —  not  a  bit,  — - 
the  bottle-cure 's  a  sham ; 

Take  before  shaking,  and  you'll  find  it 
shakes  your  diaphragm. 

"  Hans  Breitmaim  gif  a  barty,  —  vhere  is 

dot  barty  now  ?  " 
On   every   shelf    where   wit   is   stored   to 

smooth  the  careworn  brow  ! 
A  health  to  stout  Hans  Breitmaim  !     How 

long  before  we  see 
Another  Hans  as  handsome,  —  as  bright  a 

man  as  he  ! 


THE  FLANEUR 

BOSTON   COMMON,   DECEMBER  6,    1 882 
DURING   THE   TRANSIT   OF  VENUS 

I  LOVE  all  sights  of  earth  and  skies, 
From  flowers  that  glow  to  stars  that  shine ; 
The  comet  and  the  penny  show, 
All  curious  tilings,  above,  below, 
Hold  each  in  turn  my  wandering  eyes: 
I  claim  the  Christian  Pagan's  line, 
Humani  nihil,  —  even  so,  — 
And  is  not  human  life  divine  ? 

When  soft  the  western  breezes  blow, 

And  strolling  youths  meet  sauntering  maids, 

I  love  to  watch  the  stirring  trades 

Beneath  the  Vallombrosa  shades 

Our  much-enduring  elms  bestow; 

The  vender  and  his  rhetoric's  flow, 

That  lambent  stream  of  liquid  lies; 

The  bait  he  dangles  from  his  line, 

The  gudgeon  and  his  gold-washed  prize. 

I  halt  before  the  blazoned  sign 

That  bids  me  linger  to  admire 

The  drama  time  can  never  tire, 

The  little  hero  of  the  hunch, 

With  iron  arm  and  soul  of  fire, 

And  will  that  works  his  fierce  desire,  — 

Untamed,  unscared,  unconquered  Punch  ! 

My  ear  a  pleasing  torture  finds 

In  tones  the  withered  sibyl  grinds,  — 

The  dame  sans  merci's  broken  strain, 

Whom  I  erewhile,  perchance,  have  known, 


THE   FLANEUR 


285 


When  Orleans  filled  the  Bourbon  throne, 
A  siren  singing  by  the  Seine. 

But  most  I  love  the  tube  that  spies 
The  orbs  celestial  in  their  inarch; 
That  shows  the  comet  as  it  whisks 
Its  tail  across  the  planets'  disks, 
As  if  to  blind  their  blood-shot  eyes; 
Or  wheels  so  close  against  the  sun 
We  tremble  at  the  thought  of  risks 
Our  little  spinning  ball  may  run, 
To  pop  like  corn  that  children  parch, 
From  summer  something  overdone, 
And  roll,  a  cinder,  through  the  skies. 

Grudge  not  to-day  the  scanty  fee 
To  him  who  farms  the  firmament, 
To  whom  the  Milky  Way  is  free; 
Who  holds  the  wondrous  crystal  key, 
The  silent  Open  Sesame 
That  Science  to  her  sons  has  lent; 
Who  takes  his  toll,  and  lifts  the  bar 
That  shuts  the  road  to  sun  and  star. 
If  Venus  only  comes  to  time, 
(And  prophets  say  she  must  and  shall,) 
To-day  will  hear  the  tinkling  chime 
Of  many  a  ringing  silver  dime, 
For  him  whose  optic  glass  supplies 
The  crowd  with  astronomic  eyes, — 
The  Galileo  of  the  Mall. 

Dimly  the  transit  morning  broke; 
The  sun  seemed  doubting  what  to  do, 
As  one  who  questions  how  to  dress, 
And  takes  his  doublets  from  the  press, 
And  halts  between  the  old  and  new. 
Please  Heaven  he  wear  his  suit  of  blue, 
Or  don,  at  least,  his  ragged  cloak, 
AVith  rents  that  show  the  azure  through  ! 

I  go  the  patient  crowd  to  join 

That  round  the  tube  my  eyes  discern, 

The  last  new-comer  of  the  file, 

And  wait,  and  wait,  a  weary  while, 

And   gape,  and    stretch,    and   shrug,    and 

smile, 

(For  each  his  place  must  fairly  earn, 
Hindmost  and  foremost,  in  his  turn,) 
Till  hitching  onward,  pace  by  pace, 
I  gain  at  last  the  envied  place, 
And  pay  the  white  exiguous  coin: 
The  sun  and  I  are  face  to  face; 
He  glares  at  me,  I  stare  at  him; 
And  lo  !  my  straining  eye  has  found 
A  little  spot  that,  black  and  round, 


Lies  near  the  crimsoned  fire-orb's  rim. 

0  blessed,  beauteous  evening  star, 

Well  named  for  her  whom  earth  adores,  — 
The  Lady  of  the  dove-drawn  car,  — 

1  know  thee  in  thy  white  simar; 
But  veiled  in  black,  a  rayless  spot, 
Blank  as  a  careless  scribbler's  blot, 
Stripped  of  thy  robe  of  silvery  flame,  — 
The  stolen  robe  that  Night  restores 
When  Day  has  shut  his  golden  doors,  — 
I  see  thee,  yet  I  know  thee  not; 

And  canst  thou  call  thyself  the  same  ? 

A  black,  round  spot,  —  and  that  is  all  ; 
And  such  a  speck  our  earth  would  be 
If  he  who  looks  upon  the  stars 
Through  the  red  atmosphere  of  Mars 
Could  see  our  little  creeping  ball 
Across  the  disk  of  crimson  crawl 
As  I  our  sister  planet  see. 

And  art  thou,  then,  a  world  like  ours, 
Flung  from  the  orb  that  whirled  our  own 
A  molten  pebble  from  its  zone  ? 
How  must  thy  burning  sands  absorb 
The  fire-waves  of  the  blazing  orb, 
Thy  chain  so  short,  thy  path  so  near, 
Thy  flame-defying  creatures  hear 
The  maelstroms  of  the  photosphere  ! 
And  is  thy  bosom  decked  with  flowers 
That  steal  their  bloom  from  scalding  show 
ers  ? 

And  hast  thou  cities,  domes,  and  towers, 
And  life,  and  love  that  makes  it  dear, 
And  death  that  fills  thy  tribes  with  fear  ? 

Lost  in  my  dream,  my  spirit  soars 

Through  paths  the  wandering  angels  know; 

My  all-pervading  thought  explores 

The  azure  ocean's  lucent  shores; 

I  leave  my  mortal  self  below, 

As  up  the  star-lit  stairs  I  climb, 

And  still  the  widening  view  reveals 

In  endless  rounds  the  circling  wheels 

That  build  the  horologe  of  time. 

New  spheres,  new  suns,  new  systems  gleam; 

The  voice  no  earth-born  echo  hears 

Steals  softly  on  my  ravished  ears: 

I  hear  them  "  singing  as  they  shine  "  — 

A  mortal's  voice  dissolves  my  dream: 

My  patient  neighbor,  next  in  line, 

Hints  gently  there  are  those  who  wait. 

O  guardian  of  the  starry  gate, 

What  coin  shall  pay  this  debt  of  mine  ? 

Too  slight  thy  claim,  too  small  the  fee 


286 


BEFORE   THE   CURFEW 


That  bids  thee  turn  the  potent  key 
The  Tuscan's  hand  has  placed  in  thine. 
Forgive  my  own  the  small  affront, 
The  insult  of  the  proffered  dime; 
Take  it,  O  friend,  since  this  thy  wont, 
But  still  shall  faithful  memory  be 
A  bankrupt  debtor  unto  thee, 
And  pay  thee  with  a  grateful  rhyme. 


AVE 

PRELUDE  TO  "ILLUSTRATED  POEMS  " 

FULL  well  I  know  the  frozen  hand  has  come 
That  smites  the  songs  of  grove  and  garden 

dumb, 

And   chills  sad  autumn's  last  chrysanthe 
mum; 

Yet  would  I  find  one  blossom,  if  I  might, 
Ere  the  dark  loom  that  weaves  the  robe  of 

white 
Hides  all  the  wrecks  of  summer  out  of  sight. 

Sometimes  in  dim  November's  narrowing 

day, 
When  all    the  season's   pride  has  passed 

away, 
As  mid  the  blackened  steins  and  leaves  we 

stray, 

We  spy  in  sheltered  nook  or  rocky  cleft 
A  starry  disk  the  hurrying  winds  have  left, 
Of  all  its  blooming  sisterhood  bereft: 

Some  pansy,  with  its  wondering  baby  eyes  — 
Poor  wayside  nursling  !  —  fixed   in   blank 

surprise 
At  the  rough  welcome  of  unfriendly  skies; 

Or  golden  daisy,  —  will  it  dare  disclaim 
The  lion's  tooth,  to  wear  this  gentler  name  ? 
Or  blood-red  salvia,  with  its  lips  aflame: 

The  storms  have  stripped  the  lily  and  the 

rose, 
Still   on   its   cheek   the   flush   of   summer 

flows, 
its  heart-leaves  kindle  as  it  blows. 

So  had  I  looked  some  bud  of  song  to  find 
The  careless  winds  of  autumn  left  behind, 
With  these  of  earlier  seasons'  growth   to 
bind. 


Ah   me  !  my  skies   are  dark  with  sudden 

grief, 

A  flower  lies  faded  on  my  garnered  sheaf; 
Yet  let  the  sunshine  gild  this  virgin  leaf,  — 

The  joyous,  blessed  sunshine  of  the  past, 
Still   with    me,   though    the    heavens   are 

overcast,  — 
The  light  that  shines  while  life  and  memory 

last. 

Go,  pictured  rhymes,  for  loving  readers 

meant ; 
Bring  back  the  smiles  your  jocund  morning 

lent, 
And  warm  their  hearts  with  sunbeams  yet 

unspent ! 


KING'S  CHAPEL 

READ   AT   THE   TWO    HUNDREDTH    ANNI 
VERSARY 

Is  it  a  weanling's  weakness  for  the  past 

That  in  the  stormy,  rebel-breeding  town,, 
Swept  clean  of  relics  by  the  levelling  blast, 
Still  keeps  our  gray  old  chapel's  name  of 

"  King's," 

Still  to  its  outworn  symbols  fondly  clings,  — 
Its   unchurched   mitres   and   its    empty 
crown  ? 

Poor  harmless  emblems  !     All  has  shrunk 

away 
That  made  them  gorgous  in  the  patriot's 

eyes; 

The  priestly  plaything  harms  us  not  to-day; 
The  gilded  crown  is  but  a  pleasing  show, 
An  old-world  heirloom,  left  from  long  ago, 
Wreck  of  the  past  that  memory  bids  us 
prize. 

Lightly  we  glance  the  fresh-cut  marbles  o'er; 
Those  two  of  earlier  date  our  eyes  en 
thrall: 

The  proud  old  Briton's  by  the  western  door, 
And  hers,  the  Lady  of  Colonial  days, 
Whose  virtues  live  in  long-drawn   classic 

phrase,  — 
The  fair  Francesca  of  the  southern  wall. 

Ay  !  those  were  goodly  men  that  Reynolds 

drew, 

And  stately  dames  our  Copley's  canvas 
holds, 


HYMN   FOR   KING'S    CHAPEL   ANNIVERSARY 


287 


To  their  old  Church,  their  Royal  Master, 

true, 
Proud  of  the  claim  their  valiant  sires  had 

earned, 
That    "gentle    blood,"    not   lightly   to   be 

spurned, 
Save    by  the   churl   ungenerous  Nature 

moulds. 

All  vanished  !     It  were  idle  to  complain 
That  ere  the  fruits  shall  come  the  flowers 

must  fall; 
Yet    somewhat  we  have  lost    amidst    our 


Some  rare  ideals  time  may  not  restore,  — 
The    charm  of  courtly    breeding,  seen    no 

more, 
And  reverence,  dearest  ornament  of  all. 

Thus  musing,  to  the  western  wall  I  came, 
Departing:  lo  !  a  tablet  fresh  and  fair, 
Where   glistened  many  a  youth's  remem 
bered  name 

In  golden  letters  on  the  snow-white  stone,  — 
Young  lives  these  aisles  and  arches    once 

have  known, 

Their  country's  bleeding  altar  might  not 
spare. 

These  died  that  we  might  claim  a  soil  un 
stained, 

Save  by  the  blood  of  heroes;  their  be 
quests 

A  realm  inisevered  and  a  race  unchained. 

Has  purer    blood   through    Xorman    veins 
come  down 

From  the  rough  knights  that  clutched  the 

Saxon's  crown 

Than  warmed  the  pulses  in  these  faith 
ful  breasts  ? 

These,  too,  shall  live  in  history's  deathless 

page, 
High  on  the  slow-wrought  pedestals  of 

fame, 

Ranged  with  the  heroes  of  remoter  age; 
They  could  not  die  who  left  their  nation  free, 
Firm  as  the  rock,  unfettered  as  the  sea, 
Its  heaven  unshadowed  by  the  cloud  of 
shame. 

While    on   the    storied   past    our  memory 

dwells, 

Our  grateful    tribute    shall   not   be  de 
nied,  — 


The   wreath,  the  cross  of  rustling  immor 
telles; 

And  willing  hands  shall  clear  each  darken 
ing  bust, 

As  year  by  year  sifts  down  the   clinging 

dust 

On  Shirley's    beauty  and    on    Vassall's 
pride. 

But  for  our  own,  our  loved  and  lost,  we  bring 
With  throbbing   hearts    and   tears   that 
still  must  flow, 

In  full-heaped  hands,  the  opening  flowers 
of  spring, 

Lilies  half-blown,  and  budding  roses,  red 

As    their  young   cheeks,  before  the  blood 

was  shed 

That  lent  their  morning  bloom  its  gener 
ous  glow. 

Ah,    who   shall   count   a   rescued   nation's 

debt, 
Or  sum    in    words  our   martyrs'  silent 

claims  ? 
Who  shall  our  heroes'  dread  exchange  for- 


All    life,   youth,    hope,    could   promise    to 
allure 

For  all  that  soul  could  brave  or  flesh  en 
dure  ? 

They  shaped  our  future;  we  but  carve 
their  names. 


HYMN 

FOR   THF.    SAME   OCCASION 

SUNG    BY     THE    CONGREGATION     TO     THE     TUNE 
OF    TALLIS'S    EVENING    HYMN 

O'ERSHADOWED  by  the  walls  that  climb, 
Filed  up  in  air  by  living  hands, 

A  rock  amid  the  waves  of  time, 

Our  gray  old  house  of  worship  stands. 

High  o'er  the  pillared  aisles  we  love 
The  symbols  of  the  past  look  down; 

Unharmed,  unharming,  throned  above, 
Behold  the  mitre  and  the  crown  ! 

Let  not  our  younger  faith  forget 

The  loyal  souls  that  held  them  dear; 

The  prayers  we  read  their  tears  have  wet, 
The  hymns  we  sing  they  loved  to  hear. 


288 


BEFORE   THE   CURFEW 


The  memory  of  their  earthly  throne 
Still  to  our  holy  temple  clings, 

But  here  the  kneeling  suppliants  own 
One  only  Lord,  the  King  of  kings. 

Hark  !  while  our  hymn  of  grateful  praise 
The  solemn  echoing  vaults  prolong, 

The  far-off  voice  of  earlier  days 

Blends  with  our  own  in  hallowed  song: 

To  Him  who  ever  lives  and  reigns, 
Whom  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  adore, 

Who  lent  the  life  his  breath  sustains, 
Be  glory  now  and  evermore  ! 


HYMN— THE   WORD    OF   PROM 
ISE 

(BY  SUPPOSITION) 

AN  HYMN  SET  FORTH  TO  BE  SUNG  BY  THE 
GREAT  ASSEMBLY  AT  NEWTOWN,  [MASS.]  MO. 
12.  I.  1636 

Written  by  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  eldest  son 
of  Rev.  ABIEL  HOLMES,  eighth  Pastor  of  the  First 
Church  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts. 

LORD,  Thou  hast  led  us  as  of  old 

Thine  Arm  led  forth  the  chosen  Race 

Through  Foes  that  raged,  through  Floods 

that  roll'd, 
To  Canaan's  far-off  Dwelling-Place. 

Here  is  Thy  bounteous  Table  spread, 
Thy  Manna  falls  on  every  Field, 

Thy  Grace  our  hungering  Souls  hath  fed, 
Thy   Might   hath  been   our   Spear   and 
Shield. 

Lift  high  Thy  Buckler,  Lord  of  Hosts  ! 

Guard    Thou    Thy    Servants,  Sous    and 

Sires, 
While  on  the  Godless  heathen  Coasts 

They  light  Thine  Israel's  Altar-fires  ! 

The  salvage  Wilderness  remote 

Shall    hear   Thy   Works   and   Wonders 

sung; 
So  from  the  Rock  that  Moses  smote 

The  Fountain  of  the  Desart  sprung. 

Soon  shall  the  slumbering  Morn  awake, 
From  wandering  Stars  of  Errour  freed, 

When  Christ  the  Bread  of  Heaven  shall 

break 
For  Saints  that  own  a  common  Creed. 


The  Walls  that  fence  His  Flocks  apart 
Shall  crack  and  crumble  in  Decay, 

And  every  Tongue  and  every  Heart 
Shall  welcome  in  the  new-born  Day. 

Then  shall  His  glorious  Church  rejoice 
His  Word  of  Promise  to  recall,  — 

ONE  SHELTERING  FOLD,  ONE  SHEPHERD'S 

VOICE, 
ONE  GOD  AND  FATHER  OVER  ALL  ! 


HYMN 

READ  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  HOSPITAL 
AT  HUDSON,  WISCONSIN 

JUNE    7,   1887 

ANGEL  of  love,  for  every  grief 

Its  soothing  balm  thy  mercy  brings, 

For  every  pang  its  healing  leaf, 
For  homeless  want,  thine  outspread  wings. 

Enough  for  thee  the  pleading  eye, 
The  knitted  brow  of  silent  pain; 

The  portals  open  to  a  sigh 

Without  the  clank  of  bolt  or  chain. 

Who  is  our  brother  ?     He  that  lies 
Left  at  the  wayside,  bruised  and  sore: 

His  need  our  open  hand  supplies, 
His  welcome  waits  him  at  our  door. 

Not  ours  to  ask  in  freezing  tones 
His  race,  his  calling,  or  his  creed; 

Each  heart  the  tie  of  kinship  owns, 

When  those  are  human  veins  that  bleed. 

Here  stand  the  champions  to  defend 
From  every  wound  that  flesh  can  feel; 

Here  science,  patience,  skill,  shall  blend 
To  save,  to  calm,  to  help,  to  heal. 

Father  of  Mercies  !     Weak  and  frail, 
Thy  guiding  hand  thy  children  ask; 

Let  not  the  Great  Physician  fail 
To  aid  us  in  our  holy  task. 

Source  of  all  truth,  and  love,  and  light, 
That  warm  and  cheer  our  earthly  days, 

Be  ours  to  serve  Thy  will  aright, 
Be  Thine  the  glory  and  the  praise  ! 


THE   DEATH    OF   PRESIDENT   GARFIELD 


289 


OX  THE  DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT 
GARFIELD 


I 


FALLEN  with  autumn's  falling  leaf 
Ere  yet  his  summer's  noon  was  past, 

Our  friend,  our  guide,  our  trusted  chief,  — 
What  words  can  match  a  woe  so  vast  ! 

And  whose  the  chartered  claim  to  speak 
The  sacred  grief  where  all  have  part, 

Where  sorrow  saddens  every  cheek 
And  broods  in  every  aching  heart  ? 

Yet  Nature  prompts  the  burning  phrase 
That   thrills    the   hushed   and  shrouded 
hall, 

The  loud  lament,  the  sorrowing  praise, 
The  silent  tear  that  love  lets  fall. 

In  loftiest  verse,  in  lowliest  rhyme, 

Shall     strive     unblamed     the    minstrel 
choir,  — 

The  singers  of  the  new-born  time, 

And  trembling  age  with  outworn  lyre. 

No  room  for  pride,  no  place  for  blame,  — 
We  fling  our  blossoms  on  the  grave, 

Pale,  —  scentless,  —  faded,  —  all  we  claim, 
This  only,  —  what  we  had  we  gave. 

Ah,  could  the  grief  of  all  who  mourn 
Blend  in  one  voice  its  bitter  cry, 

The  wail  to  heaven's  high  arches  borne 
Would  echo  through  the  caverned  sky. 


i  , 


O  happiest  land,  whose  peaceful  choice 
Fills  with  a  breath  its  empty  throne  ! 

God,  speaking  through  thy  people's  voice, 
Has  made  that  voice  for  once  his  own. 

No  angry  passion  shakes  the  state 
Whose  weary  servant  seeks  for  rest, 

And  who  could  fear  that  scowling  hate 
AVould  strike  at  that  unguarded  breast  ? 

He  stands,  unconscious  of  his  doom, 
In  manly  strength,  erect,  serene; 

Around  him  Summer  spreads  her  bloom; 
He  falls,  — •  what  horror  clothes  the  scene  ! 


How  swift  the  sudden  flash  of  woe 

Where    all    was    bright     as    childhood's 
dream  ! 

As  if  from  heaven's  ethereal  bow 

Had  leaped  the  lightning's  arrowy  gleam. 

Blot  the  foul  deed  from  history's  page; 

Let  not  the  all-betraying  sun 
Blush  for  the  day  that  stains  an  age 

When    murder's    blackest    wreath    was 


III 

Pale  on  his  conch  the  sufferer  lies, 
The  weary  battle-ground  of  pain: 

Love  tends  his  pillow;  Science  tries 
Her  every  art,  alas  !  in  vain. 

The  strife  endures  how  long  !  how  long  ! 

Life,  death,  seem  balanced  in  the  scale, 
While  round  his  bed  a  viewless  throng 

Await  each  morrow's  changing  tale. 

In  realms  the  desert  ocean  parts 

What    myriads    watch    with    tear-tilled 

eyes. 
His  pulse-beats  echoing  in  their  hearts, 

His  breathings  counted  with  their  sighs  ! 

Slowly  the  stores  of  life  are  spent, 
Yet  hope  still  battles  with  despair  ; 

Will    Heaven    not    yield    when    knees  are 

bent  ? 
Answer,  O  thou  that  nearest  prayer  ! 

But  silent  is  the  brazen  sky; 

On    sweeps     the    meteor's     threatening 

train, 
Unswerving  Nature's  mute  reply, 

Bound  in  her  adamantine  chain. 

Not  ours  the  verdict  to  decide 

Whom    death  shall  claim   or  skill  shall 

save ; 
The  hero's  life  though  Heaven  denied, 

It  gave  our  land  a  martyr's  grave. 

Nor  count  the  teaching  vainly  sent 

How    human    hearts    their    griefs     may 

share,  — 
The  lesson  woman's  love  has  lent, 

What    hope    may   do,    what    faith    can 
bear  ! 


290 


BEFORE  THE   CURFEW 


Farewell !  the  leaf-strowii  earth  enfolds 
Our  stay,  our  pride,  our  hopes,  our  fears, 

And  autumn's  golden  sun  beholds 
A  nation  bowed,  a  world  in  tears. 


THE  GOLDEN  FLOWER 

WHEN  Advent  dawns  with  lessening  days, 

While  earth  awaits  the  angels'  hymn; 
When  bare  as  branching  coral  sways 

In  whistling  winds  each  leafless  limb; 
When  spring  is  but  a  spendthrift's  dream, 

And  summer's  wealth  a  wasted  dower, 
Nor  dews  nor  sunshine  may  redeem,  — 

Then  autumn  coins  his  Golden  Flower. 

Soft  was  the  violet's  vernal  hue, 

Fresh  was  the  rose's  morning  red, 
Full-orbed  the  stately  dahlia  grew,  — 

All   gone  !    their   short-lived    splendors 

shed. 
The  shadows,  lengthening,  stretch  at  noon; 

The  fields  are  stripped,  the  groves  are 

dumb; 
The  frost-flowers  greet  the  icy  moon,  — 

Then  blooms  the  bright  chrysanthemum. 

The  stiffening  turf  is  white  with  snow, 

Yet  still  its  radiant  disks  are  seen 
Where  soon  the  hallowed  morn  will  show 

The    wreath   and    cross   of    Christmas 

green ; 
As  if  in  autumn's  dying  days 

It  heard  the  heavenly  song  afar, 
And  opened  all  its  glowing  rays, 

The  herald  lamp  of  Bethlehem's  star. 

Orphan  of  summer,  kindly  sent 

To  cheer  the  fading  year's  decline, 
In  all  that  pitying  Heaven  has  lent 

No  fairer  pledge  of  Rope  than  thine. 
Yes  !  June  lies  hid  beneath  the  snow, 

And  winter's  unborn  heir  shall  claim 
For  every  seed  that  sleeps  below 

A  spark  that  kindles  into  flame. 

Thy  smile  the  scowl  of  winter  braves, 

Last  of  the  bright-robed,  flowery  train, 
Soft  sighing  o'er  the  garden  graves, 

"  Farewell !  farewell !  we  meet  again  !  " 
So  may  life's  chill  November  bring 

Hope's  golden  flower,  the  last  of  all, 
Before  we  hear  the  angels  sing 

Where  blossoms  never  fade  and  fall  ! 


YOUTH 

[Read  at  the  celebration  of  the  thirty-first 
anniversary  of  the  Boston  Young  Men's  Chris 
tian  Union,  May  81,  1882.] 

WHY  linger  round  the  sunken  wrecks 

Where  old  Armadas  found  their  graves  ? 
Why  slumber  on  the  sleepy  decks 

While  foam  and  clash  the  angry  waves  ? 
Up  !  when  the  storm-blast  rends  the  clouds, 

And  winged  with  ruin  sweeps  the  gale, 
Young     feet    must    climb    the    quivering 
shrouds, 

Young    hands   must  reef    the    bursting 
sail  ! 

Leave  us  to  fight  the  tyrant  creeds 

Who  felt  their  shackles,  feel  their  scars; 
The  cheerful  sunlight  little  heeds 

The   brutes   that  prowled  beneath  the 

stars; 
The  dawn  is  here,  the  day  star  shows 

The  spoils  of  many  a  battle  won, 
But  sin  and  sorrow  still  are  foes 

That  face  us  in  the  morning  sun. 

Who  sleeps  beneath  yon  bannered  mound 

The  proudly  sorrowing  mourner  seeks, 
The  garland-bearing  crowd  surrounds  ? 

A  light-haired  boy  with  beardless  cheeks  ! 
'Tis    time    this    "fallen    world"    should 
rise; 

Let  youth  the  sacred  work  begin  ! 
What  nobler  task,  what  fairer  prize 

Than  earth  to  save  and  Heaven  to  win  ? 


HAIL,   COLUMBIA! 

1798 

THE    FIRST    VERSE   OF   THE    SONG 
BY   JOSEPH    HOPK1NSON 

"  HAIL,  Columbia  !     Happy  land ! 
Hail,  ye  heroes,  heaven-born  band, 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone 
Enjoy'd  the  peace  your  valor  won. 

Let  independence  be  our  boast, 

Ever  mindful  what  it  cost ; 

Ever  grateful  for  the  prize, 

Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 


THE   FOUNTAIN   AT    STRATFORD-ON-AVON 


291 


'•  Firm  —  united  —  let  us  be, 
Rallying-  round  our  Liberty  ; 
As  a  band  of  brothers  joiii'd, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find/' 


ADDITIONAL  VERSES 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  THE  COMMIT 
TEE  FOR  THE  CONSTITUTIONAL  CENTENNIAL 
CELEBRATION  AT  PHILADELPHIA,  1887 

LOOK  our  ransomed  shores  around, 
Peace  and  safety  we  have  found  ! 

Welcome,  friends  who  once  were  foes  ! 

Welcome,  friends  who  once  were  foes, 
To  all  the  conquering  years  have  gained, — 
A  nation's  rights,  a  race  unchained  ! 

Children  of  the  day  new-born, 

Mindful  of  its  glorious  morn, 

Let  the  pledge  our  fathers  signed 

Heart  to  heart  forever  bind  ! 

While  the  stars  of  heaven  shall  burn, 
While  the  ocean  tides  return, 
Ever  may  the  circling  sun 
Find  the  Many  still  are  One  ! 

Graven  deep  witli  edge  of  steel, 
Crowned  with  Victory's  crimson  seal, 

All  the  world  their  names  shall  read  ! 

All  the  world  their  names  shall  read, 
Enrolled  with  his,  the  Chief  that  led 
The  hosts  whose  blood  for  us  was  shed. 

Pay  our  sires  their  children's  debt, 

Love  and  honor,  nor  forget 

Only  Union's  golden  key 

Guards  the  Ark  of  Liberty  ! 

While  the  stars  of  heaven  shall  burn, 
While  the  ocean  tides  return, 
Ever  may  the  circling'  sun 
Find  the  Many  still  are  One  ! 

Hail,  Columbia  !  strong  and  free, 
Throned  in  hearts  from  sea  to  sea  ! 

Thy  march  triumphant  still  pursue  ! 

Thy  march  triumphant  still  pursue 
With  peaceful  stride  from  zone  to  zone, 
Till  Freedom  finds  the  world  her  own  ! 

Blest  in  Union's  holy  ties, 

Let  our  grateful  song  arise, 

Every  voice  its  tribute  lend, 

All  in  loving  chorus  blend  ! 


While  the  stars  in  heaven  shall  burn, 
While  the  ocean  tides  return, 
Ever  shall  the  circling  sun 
Find  the  Many  still  are  One  ! 


POEM 

FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN 
AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON,  PRESENTED 
BY  GEORGE  W.  GUILDS,  OF  PHILADEL 
PHIA 

[Dated  August  20,  1887.] 

WELCOME,  thrice  welcome  is   thy  silvery 

gleam, 
Thou  long-imprisoned  stream  ! 

Welcome  the  tinkle  of  thy  crystal  beads 

As     plashing    raindrops     to    the    flowery 
meads, 

As  summer's  breath  to  Avon's  whispering 
reeds  ! 

From    rock-walled    channels,    drowned    in 

rayless  night, 
Leap  forth  to  life  and  light; 

Wake  from  the  darkness    of  thy  troubled 
dream, 

And  greet  with  answering  smile  the  morn 
ing's  beam  ! 

Xo  purer  lymph   the  white-limbed  Xaiad 

knows 

Than  from  thy  chalice  Hows; 
Xot    the    bright  spring    of    Afric's    sunny 

shores, 
Starry  with  spangles  washed  from  golden 

ores, 
Nor    glassy   stream    Bandusta's    fountain 

pours, 
Xor  wave  translucent  where  Sabrina  fair 

Braids  her  loose-flowing  hair, 
Xor  the  swift  current,  stainless  as  it  rose 
Where  chill  Arveiron  steals  from  Alpine 

snows. 

Here  shall  the  traveller  stay  his  weary  feet 

To  seek  thy  calm  retreat; 
Here  at  high  noon  the  brown-armed  reaper 

rest; 
Here,  when  the  shadows,  lengthening  from 

the  west, 

Call  the  mute  song-bird  to  his  leafy  nest, 
Matron  and  maid  shall  chat  the  cares  away 
That  brooded  o'er  the  day, 


292 


BEFORE  THE   CURFEW 


While  flocking  round  them  troops  of  chil 
dren  meet, 

And  all  the  arches  ring  with  laughter 
sweet. 

Here  shall  the  steed,  his  patient  life  who 

spends 

In  toil  that  never  ends, 
Hot  from  his  thirsty  tramp  o'er  hill  and 

plain, 
Plunge  his  red  nostrils,  while  the  torturing 

rein 
Drops  in   loose   loops   beside   his   floating 

mane ; 
Nor  the  poor  brute  that  shares  his  master's 

lot 

Find  his  small  needs  forgot,  — 
Truest  of  humble,  long-enduring  friends, 
Whose   presence   cheers,  whose    guardian 

care  defends] 

Here  lark  and  thrush  and  nightingale  shall 

sip, 
And  skimming  swallows  dip, 

And  strange  shy  wanderers  fold  their  lus 
trous  plumes 

Fragrant  from  bowers  that  lent  their  sweet 
perfumes 

Where  Psestum's  rose  or  Persia's  lilac 
blooms ; 

Here  from  his  cloud   the   eagle   stoop   to 

drink 
At  the  full  basin's  brink, 

And  whet  his  beak  against  its  rounded  lip, 

His  glossy  feathers  glistening  as  they  drip. 

Here  shall  the  dreaming  poet  linger  long, 

Far  from  his  listening  throng,  — 
Nor  lute  nor  lyre  his  trembling  hand  shall 

bring; 
Here  no  frail  Muse  shall  imp  her  crippled 

wing, 
No  faltering  minstrel  strain  his  throat  to 

sing! 
These  hallowed  echoes  who  shall  dare  to 

claim 

Whose  tuneless  voice  would  shame, 
Whose  jangling  chords  with  jarring  notes 

would  wrong 
The  nymphs  that  heard  the  Swan  of  Avon's 

song  ? 

What  visions  greet  the  pilgrim's  raptured 

eyes  ! 
What  ghosts  made  real  rise! 


The  dead   return,  —  they  breathe,  —  they 
live  again, 

Joined  by  the  host  of  Fancy's  airy  train, 

Fresh  from  the  springs  of  Shakespeare's 
quickening  brain  ! 

The  stream  that  slakes  the  soul's  diviner 

thirst 
Here  found  the  sunbeams  first; 

Rich  with  his  fame,  not  less  shall  memory 
prize 

The  gracious  gift  that  humbler  wants  sup 
plies. 

O'er   the  wide   waters   reached   the   hand 

that  gave 
To  all  this  bounteous  wave, 

With  health  and  strength  and  joyous  beauty 
fraught ; 

Blest  be  the  generous  pledge  of  friendship, 
brought 

From  the  far  home  of  brothers'  love,  un- 
bought! 

Long  may  fair  Avon's  fountain  flow,  en 
rolled 
With  storied  shrines  of  old, 

Castalia's  spring,  Egeria's  dewy  cave, 

And  Horeb's  rock  the  God  of  Israel  clave! 

Land  of  our  fathers,  ocean  makes  us  two, 

But  heart  to  heart  is  true  ! 
Proud  is  your  towering  daughter  in  the  West, 
Yet  in  her  burning  life-blood  reign  confest 
Her  mother's  pulses  beating  in  her  breast. 
This  holy  fount,  whose   rills  from  heaven 

descend, 

Its  gracious  drops  shall  lend,  — 
Both   foreheads  bathed  in  that  baptismal 

dew, 
And  love  make  one  the  old  home  and  the 

new  ! 


TO   THE    POETS    WHO    ONLY 
READ    AND    LISTEN 

WHEN  evening's  shadowy  fingers  fold 

The  flowers  of  every  hue, 
Some  shy,  half-opened  bud  will  hold 

Its  drop  of  morning's  dew. 

Sweeter  with  every  sunlit  hour 
The  trembling  sphere  has  grown, 

Till  all  the  fragrance  of  the  flower 
Becomes  at  last  its  own. 


TO   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


293 


We  that  have  sung  perchance  may  find 

Our  little  meed  of  praise, 
And  round  our  pallid  temples  bind 

The  wreath  of  fading  bays  : 

Ah,  Poet,  who  has  never  spent 

Thy  breath  in  idle  strains, 
For  thee  the  dewdrop  morning  lent 

Still  in  thy  heart  remains ; 

Unwasted,  in  its  perfumed  cell 

It  waits  the  evening  gale; 
Then  to  the  azure  whence  it  fell 

Its  lingering  sweets  exhale. 


FOR  THE   DEDICATION   OF  THE 
NEW  CITY  LIBRARY,  BOSTON 

NOVEMBER    26,    1 888 

PROUDLY,  beneath  her  glittering  dome, 
Our  three-hilled  city  greets  the  morn; 

Here  Freedom  found  her  virgin  home,  — 
The    Bethlehem    where     her    babe    was 
born. 

The  lordly  roofs  of  traffic  rise 

Amid  the  smoke  of  household  fires; 

High  o'er  them  in  the  peaceful  skies 

Faith  points   to    heaven   her   clustering 

spires. 

Can  Freedom  breathe  if  ignorance  reign  ? 

Shall    Commerce    thrive   where    anarchs 

rule  ? 
Will  Faith  her  half-Hedged  brood  retain 

If  darkening  counsels  cloud  the  school  ? 

Let  in  the  light  !  from  every  age 

Some  gleams  of  garnered  wisdom  pour, 

And,  fixed  on  thought's  electric  page, 
Wait  all  their  radiance  to  restore. 

Let  in  the  light  !  in  diamond  mines 

Their  gems  invite  the  hand  that  delves; 

So  learning's  treasured  jewels  shine 

Hanged  on  the  alcove's  ordered  shelves. 

From  history's  scroll  the  splendor  streams, 
From  science  leaps  the  living  ray ; 

Flashed  from  the  poet's  glowing  dreams 
The  opal  fires  of  fancy  play. 


Let  in  the  light  !  these  windowed  walls 
Shall  brook  no  shadowing  colonnades, 

But  day  shall  flood  the  silent  halls 
Till  o'er  yon  hills  the  sunset  fades. 

Behind  the  ever  open  gate 

No  pikes  shall  fence  a  crumbling  throne, 
No  lackeys  cringe,  no  courtiers  wait,  — 

This  palace  is  the  people's  own  ! 

Heirs  of  our  narrow-girdled  past, 
How  fair  the  prospect  we  survey, 

Where  howled  unheard  the  wintry  blast 
And  rolled  unchecked  the   storm-swept 
bay  ! 

These  chosen  precincts,  set  apart 
For  learned  toil  and  holy  shrines, 

Yield  willing  homes  to  every  art 

That  trains,  or  strengthens,  or  refines. 

Here  shall  the  sceptred  mistress  reign 
Who  heeds  her  meanest  subject's  call, 

Sovereign  of  all  their  vast  domain, 

The  queen,  the  handmaid  of  them  all  ! 


TO   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 

AT  THE  D1XXER  (HYEX  IX  HIS  ILOXOR 
AT  THE  TAVERX  CLUB,  OX  HIS  SEYKX- 
TIETH  BIRTHDAY.  FEBRUARY  22.  1889 

A  HEALTH  to  him  whose  double  wreath 

displays 

The  critic's  ivy  and  the  poet's  bays; 
Who  stayed  not  till  with  undisputed  claim 
The  civic  garland  filled  his  meed  of  fame; 
True  knight  of  Freedom,  ere  her  doubtful 

cause 
Rose  from  the  dust    to    meet  the  world's 

applause, 
His   country's  champion  on   the  bloodless 

field 
Where  truth  and  manhood  stand  for  spear 

and  shield  ! 

Who  is  the  critic  ?  He  who  never  skips 
The  luckless  passage  where  his  author  slips ; 
Slides  o'er  his  merits,  stumbles  at  his 

faults, 

Calls  him  a  cripple  if  he  sometimes  halts. 
Rich  in  the  caustic  epithets  that  sting, 
The  venom-vitriol  malice  loves  to  fling; 


294 


BEFORE   THE   CURFEW 


His  quill  a  feathered  fang  at  hate's  com- 
mand, 

His  ink  the  product  of  his  poison-gland,  — 

Is  this  the  critic  ?    Call  him  not  a  snake,  — 

This  noxious  creature,  —  for  the  reptile's 

sake  ! 
He  is  the  critic  who  is  first  to  mark 

The  star  of   genius  when  its  glimmering 
spark 

First  pricks  the  sky,  not  waiting  to  pro 
claim 

Its  coming  glory  till  it  bursts  in  flame. 

He  is  the  critic  whose  divining  rod 

Tells  where  the  waters  hide  beneath  the  sod; 

Whom  studious  search  through  varied  lore 
has  taught 

The  streams,  the  rills,  the  fountain-heads, 
of  thought; 

Who,  if   some  careless  phrase,  some  slip 
shod  clause, 

Crack   Priscian's   skull   or  break  Quintil- 
ian's  laws, 

Points  out  the  blunder  in  a  kindly  way, 

Nor  tries  his  larger  wisdom  to  display. 

Where  will  you  seek  him  ?     Wander  far 
and  wide, 

Then   turn   and   find  him  seated   at  your 
side  ! 

WTho   is   the   poet  ?      He  who   matches 

rhymes 

In  the  last  fashion  of  the  new-born  times; 
Sweats   over   sonnets   till    the   toil   seems 

worse 
Than    Heaven     intended    in    the    primal 

curse ; 

Work,  duties,  pleasures,  every  claim  for 
gets, 

To  shape  his  rondeaus  and  his  triolets  ? 
Or  is  it  he  whose  random  venture  throws 
His    lawless    whimseys    into    moonstruck 

prose, 
Where  they  who  worship  the  barbarian's 

creed 

Will  find  a  rhythmic  cadence  as  they  read, 
As   the   pleased    rustic   hears   a  tune,   or 

thinks 

He  hears  a  tune,  in  every  bell  that  clinks  ? 
Are  these  the  poets  ?     Though  their  pens 

should  blot 

A  thousand  volumes,  surely  such  are  not. 
Who   is   the   poet  ?     He  whom   Nature 

chose 
In  that  sweet  season  when  she  made   the 

rose. 


Though  with  the  changes  of  our  colder 
clime 

His  birthday  will  come  somewhat  out  of 
time, 

Through  all  the  shivering  winter's  frost 
and  chill, 

The  bloom  and  fragrance  cling  around  it 
still. 

He  is  the  poet  who  can  stoop  to  read 

The  secret  hidden  in  a  wayside  weed; 

Whom  June's  warm  breath  with  child 
like  rapture  fills, 

WThose  spirit  "dances  with  the  daffodils;  " 

Whom  noble  deeds  with  noble  thoughts  in 
spire 

And  lend  his  verse  the  true  Promethean  fire ; 

Who  drinks  the  waters  of  enchanted 
streams 

That  wind  and  wander  through  the  land  of 
dreams  ; 

For  whom  the  unreal  is  the  real  world, 

Its  fairer  flowers  with  brighter  dews  im- 
pearled. 

He  looks  a  mortal  till  he  spreads  his 
wings,  — 

He  seems  an  angel  when  he  soars  and  sings  ! 

Behold  the  poet  !  Heaven  his  days  pro 
long, 

Whom  Elmwood's  nursery  cradled  into 
song  ! 

Who  is   the   patriot?     He   who   deftly 

bends 

To  every  shift  that  serves  his  private  ends, 
His  face  all  smiling  while  his   conscience 

squirms, 

His  back  as  limber  as  a  canker  worm's; 
Who  sees  his  country  floundering  through 

a  drift, 
Nor  stirs   a   hand   the   laboring  wheel   to 

lift, 

But  trusts  to  Nature's  leisure-loving  law, 
And  waits  with  patience  for  the  snow  to 

thaw  ? 
Or   is  he   one   who,   called    to  conflict, 

draws 

His  trusty  weapon  in  his  country's  cause; 
Who,  born  a   poet,   grasps   his   trenchant 

rhymes 
And   strikes   unshrinking   at   the   nation's 

crimes; 

Who  in  the  days  of  peril  learns  to  teach 
The  wisest  lessons  in  the  homeliest  speech; 
Whose  plain  good  sense,  alive  with  tingling 

wit, 


BUT   ONE   TALENT 


295 


Can  always  find  a  handle  that  will  fit; 

Who  touches  lightly  with  Ithuriel  spear 

The  toad  close  squatting  at  the  people's 
ear, 

And  bids  the  laughing,  scornful  world  de 
scry 

The  masking  demon,  the  incarnate  lie  ? 

This,  this  is  he  his  country  well  may  say 

Is  fit  to  share  her  savior's  natal  day  ! 

Think   not   the  date   a   worn-out   king 
assigned 

As  Life's  full  measure  holds  for  all  man 
kind  ; 

Shall     Gladstone,    crowned    with     eighty 
years,  withdraw  ? 

See,  nearer  home,  the  Lion  of  the  Law  — 

How  Court  Street  trembles  when  he  leaves 
his  den, 

Clad  in  the  pomp  of  four  score  years  and 
ten  ! 

Once  more  the  health  of  Nature's  favored 

son, 

The  poet,  critic,  patriot,  all  in  one; 
Health,  honor,  friendship,  ever  round  him 

wait 
In  life's  fair  field  beyond  the  seven-barred 

gate  ! 


BUT  OXE  TALENT 

YE  who  yourselves  of  larger  worth  esteem 
Than  common  mortals,  listen  to  my  dream, 
And    learn    the    lesson    of    life's    cozening 
cheat, 

The  coinage  of  conceit. 

—  The  angel,  guardian  of  my  youth  and 

age, 
Spread   out   before  me  an  account-book's 

page, 
Saying,    "  This  column    marks  what    tliou 

dost  owe,  — 

The  gain  thou  hast  to  show." 

11  Spirit,"  I  said,  "  I  know,  alas  !  too  well 
How  poor  the  tale  thy  record  has  to  tell. 
Much     I    received,  —  the    little    I    have 
brought 

Seems  by  its  side  as  naught. 

"  Five  talents,  all  of  Ophir's  purest  gold, 
These  five  fair  caskets  ranged  before  thee 
hold; 


The  first  can  show  a  few  poor  shekels'  gain, 
The  rest  unchanged  remain. 

"  Bringing  my  scanty  tribute,  overawed, 
To  Him  who  reapeth  where  Pie  hath  not 

strawed, 

I  tremble  like  a  culprit  when  I  count 
My  whole  vast  debt's  amount. 

"  What  will  He   say    to   one    from  whom 

were  due 
Ten  talents,  when  he  comes  with  less  than 

two  ? 

What  can  I  do  but  shudder  and  await 
The  slothful  servant's  fate  ?  " 

—  As  looks  a  mother  on  an  erring  child, 
The    angel    looked   me    in    the    face    and 

smiled: 

"  How  couldst  thou,  reckoning  with  thy 
self,  contrive 

To  count  thy  talents  five  ? 

"  These  caskets  which  thy  flattering  fan 
cies  gild 

Not  all  with  Ophir's  precious  ore  are 
filled; 

Thy  debt  is  slender,  for  thy  gift  was  small: 
One  talent,  —  that  was  all. 

"  This  second  casket,  with  its  grave  pre 
tence, 

Is  weighty  with  thine  IGNORANCE,  dark 
and  dense, 

Save  for  a  single  glowworm's  glimmering 
light 

To  mock  its  murky  night 

"  The  third  conceals  the  DULNESS  that  was 
thine. 

How  could  thy  mind  its  lack  of  wit  di 
vine  ? 

Let  not  what  Heaven  assigned  thee  bring 
thee  blame; 

Thy  want  is  not  thy  shame. 

"  The  fourth,  so  light  to  lift,  so  fair  to  see, 
Is  filled  to  bursting  with  thy  VANITY, 
The  vaporous  breath  that  kept  thy  hopes 
alive 

By  counting  one  as  five. 

"  These  held  but  little,  but  the  fifth  held 

less, — 
Only  blank  vacuum,  naked  nothingness, 


296 


BEFORE  THE   CURFEW 


An  idiot's  portion.     He  who  gave  it  knows 
Its  claimant  nothing  owes. 

"  Thrice  happy  pauper  he  whose  last  ac 
count 

Shows  on  the  debtor  side  the  least  amount! 

The  more  thy  gifts,  the  more  thon  needs 
must  pay 

On  life's  dread  reckoning  day." 

—  Humbled,  not  grieving  to  be  undeceived, 
I  woke,  from   fears   of  hopeless  debt   re 
lieved  : 

For  sparing   gifts   but  small   returns   are 
due,  — 

Thank  Heaven  I  had  so  few  ! 


FOR    THE   WINDOW    IN    ST. 
MARGARET'S 

IN   MEMORY    OF   A    SON    OF   ARCHDEACON 
FARRAR 

AFAR  he  sleeps  whose  name  is  graven  here, 
Where  loving  hearts  his  early  doom  de 
plore  ; 
Youth,  promise,  virtue,  all  that  made  him 

dear 

Heaven  lent,  earth  borrowed,  sorrowing 
to  restore. 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 
1819-1891 

THOU  shouldst  have  sung  the   swan-song 

for  the  choir 
That  filled  our  groves  with  music  till  the 

day 

Lit  the  last  hilltop  with  its  reddening  fire, 
And  evening  listened  for  thy  lingering 
lay. 

But  thou  hast  found  thy  voice  in  realms  afar 
Where  strains  celestial  blend  their  notes 

with  thine; 
Some  cloudless  sphere  beneath  a  happier 

star 

Welcomes  the  bright-winged   spirit  we 
resign. 

How  Nature  mourns  thee  in  the  still  retreat 
Where  passed  in  peace  thy  love-enchanted 
hours  ! 


Where  shall  she  find  an  eye  like  thine  to 

greet 

Spring's  earliest  footprints  on  her  open 
ing  flowers  ? 

Have  the  pale  wayside  wreeds  no  fond  re 
gret 

For  him  who  read  the  secrets  they  enfold? 
Shall  the  proud  spangles  of  the  field  for- 

get 

The  verse  that  lent  new  glory  to  their 
gold? 

And  ye  whose  carols  wooed  his  infant  ear, 
Whose  chants  with  answering  woodnotes 

he  repaid, 

Have  ye  no  song  his  spirit  still  may  hear 
From  Elm  wood's  vaults  of  overarching 
shade  ? 

Friends  of  his  studious  hours,  who  thronged 

to  teach 
The  deep-read  scholar  all   your  varied 

lore, 
Shall  he  no  longer  seek  your  shelves  to 

reach 

The   treasure  missing   from   his  world 
wide  store  ? 


This   singer  whom  we  long   have  held  so 

dear 
Was  Nature's  darling,  shapely,  strong, 

and  fair  ; 

Of  keenest  wit,  of  judgment  crystal-clear, 
Easy  of  converse,  courteous,  debonair, 

Fit  for  the  loftiest  or  the  lowliest  lot, 
Self-poised,    imperial,   yet    of    simplest 

ways; 
At  home  alike  in  castle  or  in  cot, 

True  to   his   aim,    let   others   blame    or 
praise. 

Freedom  he   found   an  heirloom  from  his 

sires; 
Song,  letters,  statecraft,  shared  his  j*ears 

in  turn; 

All  went  to  feed  the  nation's  altar-fires 
Whose    mourning   children  wreathe   his 
funeral  urn. 

He    loved   New    England, — people,   lan 
guage,  soil, 
Unweaned  by  exile  from  her  arid  breast. 


IN   MEMORY   OF  JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER  297 


Farewell    awhile,    white-handed    son    of 

toil, 

Go  with  her  brown-armed  laborers  to  thy 
rest. 

Peace  to  thy  slumber  in  the  forest  shade  ! 

Poet  and  patriot,  every  gift  was  thine; 

Thy  name  shall  live  while  summers  bloom 

and  fade, 

And  grateful  Memory  guard  thy  leafy 
shrine  ! 


IN    MEMORY    OF    JOHN    GREEN- 
LEAF  WHITTIER 

DECEMBER  I  7,  I  807  —  SEl'TE.MISER  7,  1892 

THOU,  too,  hast  left  us.     While  with  heads 

bowed  low, 
And  sorrowing  hearts,  we  mourned  our 

summer's  dead, 

The  flying  season  bent  its  Parthian  bow, 
And  yet  again  our  mingling  tears  were 
shed. 

Was  Heaven  impatient  that  it  could  not 

wait 
The  blasts  of  winter  for  earth's  fruits  to 

fall  ? 
Were    angels   crowding    round    the    open 

gate 

To    greet   the    spirits  coming   at   their 
call  ? 

Nay,   let    not    fancies,    born    of    old    be 
liefs, 

Play  with  the  heart-beats  that  are  throb 
bing  still, 
And  waste    their  outworn   phrases  011  the 

griefs, 

The    silent   griefs   that  words   can  only 
chill. 

For  thee,  dear  friend,  there  needs  no  high- 
wrought  lay, 
To  shed  its  aureole  round  thy  cherished 

name,  — 
Thou   whose    plain,    home-born  speech    of 

Yea  and  Nay 
Thy  truthful  nature  ever  best  became. 

Death  reaches  not  a  spirit  such  as  thine,  — 
It  can  but  steal  the  robe   that  hid  thy 
wings; 


Though  thy  warm  breathing  presence  we 

resign, 

Still  in  our  hearts  its  loving  semblance 
clings. 

Peaceful   thy  message,  yet  for  struggling 

right,  — 
When  Slavery's  gauntlet  in  our  face  was 

flung,  — 

While  timid  weaklings  watched  the  dubi 
ous  tight 
No  herald's  challenge  more  defiant  rung. 

Yet  was  thy  spirit  tuned  to  gentle  themes 
Sought  in  the  haunts  thy  humble  youth 

had  known. 
Our  stern  New  England's  hills  and  vales 

and  streams,  — 
Thy  tuneful  idyls  made  them  all  their  own. 

The  wild  flowers  springing  from  thy  native 

sod 
Lent   all    their    charms    thy   new-world 

song  to  fill,  — 

Gave  thee  the  mayflower  and  the  golden-rod 
To  match  the  daisy  and  the  daffodil. 

In  the  brave  records  of  our  earlier  time 
A  hero's  deed  thy  generous  soul  inspired, 

And  many  a  legend,  told  in  ringing  rhyme, 
The  youthful  soul  with  high  resolve  has 
fired. 

Not  thine   to  lean  on  priesthood's  broken 

reed; 

No  barriers  caged  thee  in  a  bigot's  fold; 
Did  zealots  ask  to  syllable  thy  creed, 

Thou  saidst  "  Our  Father,"  and  thy  creed 
was  told. 

Best  loved   and   saintliest  of  our    singing 

train, 

Earth's  noblest  tributes  to  thy  name  be 
long. 

A  lifelong  record  closed  without  a  stain, 
A  blameless  memory  shrined  in  deathless 
song. 

Lift   from   its    quarried    ledge    a   flawless 

stone; 
Smooth  the  green  turf  and  bid  the  tablet 

rise, 

And  on  its  snow-white  surface  carve  alone 
These    words,  —  he    needs    no   more,  — 
HERE  WHITTIER  LIES. 


298 


BEFORE  THE   CURFEW 


TO  THE  TEACHERS  OF  AMERICA 

[During  a  session  in  Boston  of  the  National 
Educational  Association,  in  February,  1893,  Mr. 
Houghton  and  other  publishers  gave  a  recep 
tion  for  the  purpose  of  introducing  resident 
authors  to  the  members  of  the  association.  It 
was  on  this  occasion,  February  23,  1893,  that 
Dr.  Holmes  read  the  following  verses.] 

TEACHERS  of  teachers  !     Yours  the  task, 
Noblest  that  noble  minds  can  ask, 
High  up  Aonia's  murmurous  mount, 
To  watch,  to  guard  the  sacred  fount 

That  feeds  the  streams  below; 
To  guide  the  hurrying  flood  that  fills 
A  thousand  silvery  rippling  rills 

In  ever-widening  flow. 

Rich  is  the  harvest  from  the  fields 
That  bounteous  Nature  kindly  yields, 
But  fairer  growths  enrich  the  soil 
Ploughed  deep  by  thought's  unwearied  toil 

In  Learning's  broad  domain. 
And  where   the    leaves,   the    flowers,   the 

fruits, 
Without  your  watering  at  the  roots, 

To  fill  each  branching  vein  ? 

Welcome  !  the  Author's  firmest  friends, 
Your  voice  the  surest  Godspeed  lends. 
Of  you  the  growing  mind  demands 
The  patient  care,  the  guiding  hands, 

Through  all  the  mists  of  morn. 
And  knowing  well  the  future's  need, 
Your  prescient  wisdom  sows  the  seed 

To  flower  in  years  unborn. 


HYMN 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  TWENTY-FIFTH  ANNI 
VERSARY  OF  THE  REORGANIZATION  OF 
THE  BOSTON  YOUNG  MEN'S  CHRISTIAN 
UNION,  MAY  31,  1893 

TUNE,   "DUNDEE" 

OUR  Father  !  while  our  hearts  unlearn 
The  creeds  that  wrong  thy  name, 

Still  let  our  hallowed  altars  burn 
With  Faith's  undying  flame  ! 

Not  by  the  lightning-gleams  of  wrath 
Our  souls  thy  face  shall  see, 


The  star  of  Love  must  light  the  path 
That  leads  to  Heaven  and  Thee. 

Help  us  to  read  our  Master's  will 
Through  every  darkening  stain 

That  clouds  his  sacred  image  still, 
And  see  Him  once  again, 

The  brother  man,  the  pitying  friend 
Who  weeps  for  human  woes, 

Whose  pleading  words  of  pardon  blend 
With  cries  of  raging  foes. 

If  'mid  the  gathering  storms  of  doubt, 
Our  hearts  grow  faint  and  cold, 

The  strength  we  cannot  live  without 
Thy  love  will  not  withhold. 

Our  prayers  accept;  our  sins  forgive; 

Our  youthful  zeal  renew; 
Shape  for  us  holier  lives  to  live, 

And  nobler  work  to  do  ! 


FRANCIS    PARKMAN 

SEPTEMBER  1 6,  1823  —  NOVEMBERS,  1893 

Read  at  the  memorial  meeting  of  the  Massa 
chusetts  Historical  Society. 

HE   rests   from   toil;   the   portals   of    the 

tomb 
Close  on  the   last  of   those  unwearying 

hands 
That  wove  their  pictured  webs  in  History's 

loom, 

Rich  with  the  memories  of  three  distant 
lands. 

One  wrought  the  record  of  the  Royal  Pair 
Who  saw  the  great  Discoverer's  sail  un 
furled, 

Happy  his  more  than  regal  prize  to  share, 
The  spoils,  the   wonders,  of   the  sunset 
world. 

There,  too,  he  found  his  theme;  upreared 

anew, 
Our   eyes    beheld   the    vanished   Aztec 

shrines, 
And  all  the  silver  splendors  of  Peru 

That  lured  the  conqueror  to   her   fatal 
mines. 


FRANCIS   PARKMAN 


299 


Nor  less  remembered  he  who  told  the  tale 
Of  empire  wrested  from  the  strangling 

sea; 
Of  Leyden's  woe,  that  turned  his  readers 


The  price  of  unborn  freedom  yet  to  be; 

Who  taught  the  New  World  what  the  Old 

could  teach; 
Whose     silent     hero,    peerless    as    our 

own, 
By  deeds  that  mocked  the  feeble  breath  of 

speech 

Called     up    to   life    a    State    without   a 
Throne. 

As  year  by  year  his  tapestry  unrolled, 
What  varied  wealth  its  growing  length 

displayed  ! 
What  long  processions  flamed  in  cloth  of 

gold  ! 

What  stately  forms  their  flowing  robes 
arrayed  ! 

Not  such  the    scenes    our  later   craftsman 

drew; 
Not  such  the  shapes  his  darker  pattern 

held; 
A  deeper  shadow  lent  its  sober  hue, 

A  sadder  tale  his  tragic  task  compelled. 

He  told  the  red  man's  story;  far  and  wide 
He  searched  the  unwritten  records  of  his 

race ; 

He  sat  a  listener  at  the  Sachem's  side, 
He  tracked  the  hunter  through  his  wild- 
wood  chase. 

High    o'er   his    head    the     soaring    eagle 

screamed ; 

The   wolf's    long    howl     rang     nightly; 
through  the  vale 


Tramped  the  lone  bear;  the  panther's  eye 
balls  gleamed; 
The  bison's  gallop  thundered  on  the  gale. 

Soon  o'er  the   horizon   rose   the    cloud    of 

strife, — 
Two  proud,  strong  nations  battling  for 

the  prize,  — 

Which  swarming  host  should  mould  a  na 
tion's  life, 

Which  royal  banner   float   the    western 
skies. 

Long  raged  the  conflict ;  on  the  crimson  sod 
Native    and  alien   joined  their  hosts    in 

vain ; 

The  lilies  withered  where  the  Lion  trod, 
Till  Peace  lay  panting   on    the    ravaged 
plain. 

A  nobler  task  was  theirs  who  strove  to  win 
The  blood-stained  heathen  to  the  Chris 
tian  fold, 
To  free  from  Satan's  clutch  the  slaves  of 

sin; 

Their  labors,  too,  with  loving  grace  he 
told. 

Halting  with  feeble  step,  or  bending  o'er 
The  sweet-breathed  roses  which  he  loved 

so  well, 
While  through   long  years   his   burdening 

cross  he  bore, 

From  those  firm  lips  no  coward  accents 
fell. 

A  brave,  bright  memory  !  his  the  stainless 

shield 

No  shame  defaces  and  no  envy  mars  ! 
When  our  far  future's  record  is  unsealed, 
His  name  will  shine  among  its  morning 
stars. 


POEMS    FROM   OVER  THE   TEACUPS 


TO  THE   ELEVEN   LADIES 

WHO  PRESENTED  ME  WITH  A  SILVER 
LOVING  CUP  ON  THE  TWENTY-NINTH 
OF  AUGUST,  M  DCCC  LXXXIX 

"  WHO  gave  this  cup  ?  "     The  secret  thou 

wouldst  steal 

Its  brimming  flood  forbids  it  to  reveal: 
No  mortal's  eye  shall  read  it  till  he  first 
Cool  the  red  throat  of  thirst. 

If  on  the  golden  floor  one  draught  remain, 
Trust    me,  thy  careful  search    will  be  in 

vain; 
Not   till   the   bowl  is   emptied   shalt  thou 

know 
The  names  enrolled  below. 

Deeper  than  Truth  lies  buried  in  her  well 
Those  modest  names  the  graven  letters  spell 
Hide  from  the  sight;  but  wait,  and  thou 

shalt  see 
Who  the  good  angels  be 

Whose  bounty  glistens  in  the  beauteous  gift 
That   friendly  hands   to   loving  lips   shall 

lift: 

Turn  the  fair  goblet  when  its  floor  is  dry,  — 
Their  names  shall  meet  thine  eye. 

Count  thou  their  number  on  the  beads  of 

Heaven: 

Alas  !  the  clustered  Pleiads  are  but  seven; 
Nay,  the  nine  sister  Muses  are  too  few,  — 
The  Graces  must  add  two. 

"  For  whom  this  gift  ?  "     For  one  who  all 

too  long 
Clings  to  his  bough  among  the  groves  of 

song; 
Autumn's  last  leaf,  that  spreads  its  faded 

wing 
To  greet  a  second  spring. 


Dear   friends,  kind   friends,  whate'er  the 

cup  may  hold, 
Bathing  its  burnished  depths,  will  change 

to  gold: 
Its  last   bright   drop   let   thirsty  Monads 

drain, 
Its  fragrance  will  remain. 

Better  love's  perfume  in  the  empty  bowl 
Then  wine's  nepenthe  for  the  aching  soul  ; 
Sweeter  than  song  that  ever  poet  sung, 
It  makes  an  old  heart  young  ! 


THE  PEAU  DE  CHAGRIN  OF 
STATE  STREET 

How  beauteous  is  the^bond 
In  the  manifold  array 
Of  its  promises  to  pay, 
While  the  eight  per  cent  it  gives 
And  the  rate  at  which  one  lives 
Correspond  ! 

But  at  last  the  bough  is  bare 
Where  the  coupons  one  by  one 
Through  their  ripening  days  have  run, 
And  the  bond,  a  beggar  now, 
Seeks  investment  anyhow, 
Anywhere  ! 


CACOETHES  SCRIBENDI 

IF  all  the  trees  in  all  the  woods  were  men; 
And  each  and  every  blade  of  grass  a  pen; 
If  every  leaf  on  every  shrub  and  tree 
Turned  to  a  sheet  of  foolscap  ;  every  sea 
Were  changed  to  ink,  and  all  earth's  living 

tribes 

Had  nothing  else  to  do  but  act  as  scribes, 
And  for  ten  thousand  ages,  day  and  night, 
The  human  race  should  write,  and  write, 

and  write, 


3oo 


TOO   YOUNG   FOR   LOVE 


301 


Till  all  the  pens  and  paper  were  used  up, 
And  the  huge  inkstand  was  an  empty  cup, 
Still  would  the  scribblers  clustered  round 

its  brink 
Call  for  more  pens,  more  paper,  and  more 

ink. 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  FERN 

LADY,  life's  sweetest  lesson  wouldst  thou 

learn, 
Come  thou  with  me  to  Love's  enchanted 

bower: 

High  overhead  the  trellised  roses  burn; 
Beneath    thy    feet    behold    the    feathery 

fern,  — 
A  leaf  without  a  flower. 

What  though  the  rose  leaves  fall  ?     They 

still  are  sweet, 
And  have  been  lovely  in  their  beauteous 

prime, 

While  the   bare  frond  seems  ever  to   re 
peat, 

"  For  us  no  bud,  no  blossom,  wakes  to  greet 
The  joyous  flowering  time  !  " 

Heed  thou  the  lesson.     Life  has  leaves  to 

tread 
And  flowers  to  cherish;  summer   round 

thee  glows  ; 
Wait  not   till   autumn's    fading   robes  are 

shed, 

But  while  its  petals  still  are  burning  red 
Gather  life's  full-blown  rose  ! 


I   LIKE  YOU  AND  I  LOVE  YOU 

I  LIKE  YOU  met  I  LOVE  YOU,  face  to  face ; 
The  path  was  narrow,  and  they  could  not 

pass. 
I  LIKE  YOU  smiled;  I  LOVE  YOU  cried 

Alas  ! 
And  so  they  halted  for  a  little  space. 

"Turn  thou  and  go  before,"  I  LOVE  YOU 

said, 
'•  Down  the  green  pathway,  bright  with 

many  a  flower; 

Deep  in  the  valley,  lo  !  my  bridal  bower 
Awaits  thee."     But  I  LIKE  YOU  shook  his 
head. 


Then  while  they  lingered  on  the  span-wide 

shelf 
That  shaped  a  pathway  round  the  rocky 

ledge, 

I  LIKE  YOU  bared  his  icy  dagger's  edge, 
And  first  he  slew  I  LOVE  YOU,  —  then  him 
self. 

LA    MA1SON    D'OR 
(BAR   HARBOR) 

FROM  this  fair  home  behold  on  either  side 
The  restful  mountains  or  the  restless  sea: 

So  the  warm  sheltering  walls  of  life  divide 
Time  and  its  tides  from  still  eternity. 

Look  on  the   waves:    their  stormy   voices 

teach 
That  not  on  earth  may  toil  and  struggle 

cease. 
Look   on   the    mountains :  better  far  than 

speech 
Their  silent  promise  of  eternal  peace. 


TOO    YOUNG    FOR    LOVE 

Too  young  for  love  ? 

Ah,  say  not  so  ! 

Tell  reddening  rosebuds  not  to  blow  ! 
Wait  not  for  spring  to  pass  away,  — 
Love's  summer  months  begin  with  May  ! 

Too  young  for  love  ? 

Ah,  say  not  so  ! 

Too  young  ?     Too  young  ? 

Ah,  no  !  no  !  no  ! 

Too  young  for  love  ? 

All,  say  not  so, 

While  daisies  bloom  and  tulips  glow  ! 
June  soon  will  come  with  lengthened  day 
To  practise  all  love  learned  in  May. 

Too  young  for  love  ? 

Ah,  say  not  so  ! 

Too  young  ?     Too  young  ? 

Ah,  no  !  no  !  no  ! 


THE  BROOMSTICK  TRAIN;  OR, 
THE  RETURN  OF  THE  WITCHES 

If  there  are  any  anachronisms  or  other  inac 
curacies  in  this  story,  the  reader  will  please  to 
remember  that  the  narrator's  memory  is  liable 
to  be  at  fault,  and  if  the  event  recorded  inter- 


302 


POEMS  FROM  OVER  THE  TEACUPS 


ests  him,  will  not  worry  over  any  little  slips  or 
stumbles. 

The  terrible  witchcraft  drama  of  1G92  has 
been  seriously  treated,  as  it  well  deserves  to 
be.  The  story  has  been  told  in  two  large 
volumes  by  the  Rev.  Charles  Wentworth 
Upham,  and  in  a  small  and  more  succinct 
volume,  based  upon  his  work,  by  his  daughter- 
in-law,  Caroline  E.  Upham. 

The  delusion,  commonly  spoken  of  as  if  it 
belonged  to  Salem,  was  more  widely  diffused 
through  the  towns  of  Essex  County.  Looking 
upon  it  as  a  pitiful  and  long  dead  and  buried 
superstition,  I  trust  my  poem  will  no  more 
offend  the  good  people  of  Essex  County  than 
Tarn  O'Shanter  worries  the  honest  folk  of 
Ayrshire. 

The  localities  referred  to  are  those  with 
which  I  am  familiar  in  my  drives  about  Essex 
County. 

LOOK   out !     Look  out,  boys  !     Clear  the 

track  ! 
The  witches  are  here  !     They  've  all  come 

back! 
They  hanged  them  high,  —  No  use  !     No 

use  ! 

What  cares  a  witch  for  a  hangman's  noose  ? 
They  buried  them  deep,  but  they  wouldn't 

lie  still, 

For  cats  and  witches  are  hard  to  kill; 
They  swore  they  should  n't  and  would  n't 

die,— 
Books  said  they  did,  but  they  lie  !  they  lie  ! 

A  couple  of  hundred  years,  or  so, 
They  had  knocked  about  in  the  world  below, 
When  an  Essex  Deacon  dropped  in  to  call, 
And  a  homesick  feeling  seized  them  all; 
For  he  came  from  a  place  they  knew  full 

well, 

And  many  a  tale  he  had  to  tell. 
They  longed  to  visit  the  haunts  of  men, 
To  see  the  old  dwellings  they  knew  again, 
And  ride  on  their  broomsticks  all  around 
Their  wide  domain  of  unhallowed  ground. 

In  Essex  county  there  's  many  a  roof 
Well  known  to  him  of  the  cloven  hoof; 
The  small  square  windows  are  full  in  view 
Which   the    midnight   hags   went    sailing 

through, 
On  their  well-trained  broomsticks  mounted 

high, 

Seen  like  shadows  against  the  sky; 
Crossing  the  track  of  owls  and  bats, 
Hugging  before  them  their  coal-black  cats. 


Well  did  they  know,  those  gray  old  wives, 
The  sights  we  see  in  our  daily  drives: 
Shimmer  of  lake  and  shine  of  sea, 
Browne's  bare  hill  with  its  lonely  tree, 
(It  was  n't  then  as  we  see  it  now, 
With   one   scant   scalp-lock  to   shade    its 

brow;) 

Dusky  nooks  in  the  Essex  woods, 
Dark,  dim,  Dante-like  solitudes, 
Where  the  tree-toad  watches  the  sinuous 

snake 
Glide    through    his    forests   of    fern   and 

brake ; 

Ipswich  River;  its  old  stone  bridge; 
Far  off  Andover's  Indian  Ridge, 
And  many  a  scene  where  history  tells 
Some  shadow  of  bygone  terror  dwells,  — 
Of    "  Norman's   Woe "   with    .ts    tale   of 

dread, 

Of  the  Screeching  Woman  of  Marbleheacl, 
(The  fearful  story  that  turns  men  pale : 
Don't  bid  me  tell  it,  —  my  speech  would 

fail.) 

Who  would  not,  will  not,  if  he  can, 
Bathe  in  the  breezes  of  fair  Cape  Ann,  — 
Rest  in  the  bowers  her  bays  enfold, 
Loved  by  the  sachems  and  squaws  of  old  ? 
Home  where  the  white  magnolias  bloom, 
Sweet  with  the  bayberry's  chaste  perfume, 
Hugged  by  the  woods  and  kissed  by  the 

sea! 

Where  is  the  Eden  like  to  tliee  ? 
For  that    "  couple    of   hundred   years,   or 

so," 

There  had  been  no  peace  in  the  world  be 
low; 
The    witches    still    grumbling,  "  It   is  n't 

fair; 

Come,  give  us  a  taste  of  the  upper  air  ! 
We  've  had  enough  of  your  sulphur  springs, 
And  the  evil  odor  that  round  them  clings; 
We   long   for   a   drink   that   is   cool    and 

nice,  — 

Great  buckets  of  water  with  Wenham  ice ; 
We  've    served    you   well    up-stairs,    you 

know; 

You  're  a  good  old  —  fellow  —  come,  let  us 
go!" 

I  don't  feel  sure  of  his  being  good, 

But    he    happened    to    be   in   a  pleasant 

mood,  — 
As  fiends  with  their  skins  full  sometimes 

are, — 


THE   BROOMSTICK   TRAIN 


303 


(He  'cl  been  drinking  with  "  roughs  "  at  a 

Boston  bar.) 

So  what  does  he  do  but  up  and  shout 
To  a  graybeard  turnkey,  "  Let  'em  out  !  " 

To  mind  his  orders  was  all  he  knew; 

The  gates  swung  open,  and  out  they  flew. 

"  Where  are  our  broomsticks  ?  "  the  bel 
dams  cried. 

"  Here  are  your  broomsticks,"  an  imp  re 
plied. 

"  They  've  been  in  —  the  place  you  know  — 
so  long 

They  smell  of  brimstone  uncommon  strong; 

But  they  've  gained  by  being  left  alone,  — 

Just  look,  and  you  '11  see  how  tall  they  've 
grown." 

"  And  where  is  my  cat  ?  "  a  vixen  squalled. 

"  Yes,  where  are  our  cats  ?  "  the  witches 
bawled, 

And  began  to  call  them  all  by  name: 

As  fast  as  they  called  the  cats,  they  came: 

There  was  bob-tailed  Tommy  and  long- 
tailed  Tim, 

And  wall-eyed  Jacky  and  green-eyed  Jim, 

And  splay-foot  Benny  and  slim-legged 
Beau, 

And  Skinny  and  Squally,  and  Jerry  and 
Joe, 

And  many  another  that  came  at  call,  — 

It  would  take  too  long  to  count  them  all. 

All  black,  —  one  could  hardly  tell  which 
was  which, 

But  every  cat  knew  his  own  old  witch; 

And  she  knew  hers  as  hers  knew  her,  — 

Ah,  did  n't  they  curl  their  tails  and  purr  ! 

No  sooner  the  withered  hags  were  free 

Than  out  they  swarmed  for  a  midnight 
spree; 

I  could  n't  tell  all  they  did  in  rhymes, 

But  the  Essex  people  had  dreadful  times. 

The  Swampscott  fishermen  still  relate 

How  a  strange  sea-monster  stole  their  bait; 

How  their  nets  were  tangled  in  loops  and 
knots, 

And  they  found  dead  crabs  in  their  lobster- 
pots. 

Poor  Danvers  grieved  for  her  blasted  crops, 

And  Wilmington  mourned  over  mildewed 
hops. 

A  blight  played  havoc  with  Beverly 
beans,  — 

It  was  all  the  work  of  those  hateful  queans  ! 

A  dreadful  panic  began  at  "  Pride's," 


Where  the  witches  stopped  in  their  mid 
night  rides, 

And  there  rose  strange  rumors  and  vague 
alarms 

'Mid  the  peaceful  dwellers  at  Beverly 
Farms. 

Now  when  the  Boss  of  the  Beldams  found 
That  without  his  leave  they  were  ramping 

round, 
He  called,  —  they  could  hear  him  twenty 

miles, 

From  Chelsea  beach  to  the  Misery  Isles; 
The  deafest  old  granny  knew  his  tone 
Without  the  trick  of  the  telephone. 
''Come  here,  you  witches  !     Come  here!" 

says  he,  — 
"  At    your  games    of  old,  without  asking 

me  ! 

I  '11  give  you  a  little  job  to  do 
That  will   keep  you  stirring,  you  godless 

crew  !  " 

They  came,  of  course,  at  their  master's  call, 
The  witches,  the  broomsticks,  the  cats,  and 

all; 

He  led  the  hags  to  a  railway  train 
The  horses  were  trying  to  drag  in  vain. 
"Now,  then,"  says  he,  "you've  had  your 

fun, 

And  here  are  the  cars  you  've  got  to  run. 
The  driver  may  just  unhitch  his  team, 
We    don't    want    horses,    we     don't    want 

steam; 

You  may  keep  your  old  black  cats  to  hug, 
But  the  loaded  train  you  've  got  to  lug." 

Since  then  on  many  a  car  you  '11  see 

A  broomstick  plain  as  plain  can  be; 

On  every  stick  there  's  a  witch  astride,  — 

The  string  you  see  to  her  leg  is  tied. 

She  will  do  a  mischief  if  she  can, 

But  the  string  is  held  by  a  careful  man, 

And  whenever  the  evil-minded  witch 

Would  cut  some  caper,  he  gives  a  twitch. 

As  for  the  hag,  you  can't  see  her, 

But  hark  !  you   can   hear  her  black  cat's 

purr, 

And  now  and  then,  as  a  car  goes  by, 
You  may  catch  a  gleam  from  her  wicked 

eye. 

Often  you  've  looked  on  a  rushing  train, 
But  just  what  moved  it  was  not  so  plain. 
It  could  n't  be  those  wires  above, 
For  they  could  neither  pull  nor  shove ; 


3°4 


POEMS  FROM  OVER  THE  TEACUPS 


Where  was  the  motor  that  made  it  go 
You  could  n't  guess,  but  now  you  know. 

Remember  my  rhymes  when  you  ride  again 
On    the  rattling  rail    by  the   broomstick 
train  ! 


TARTARUS 

WHILE  in  my  simple  gospel  creed 
That  "  God  is  Love  "  so  plain  I  read, 
Shall  dreams  of  heathen  birth  affright 
My  pathway  through  the  coming  night  ? 
Ah,  Lord  of  life,  though  spectres  pale 
Fill  with  their  threats  the  shadowy  vale, 
With  Thee  my  faltering  steps  to  aid, 
How  can  I  dare  to  be  afraid  ? 

Shall  mouldering  page  or  fading  scroll 
Outface  the  charter  of  the  soul  ? 
Shall  priesthood's  palsied  arm  protect 
The  wrong  our  human  hearts  reject, 
And  smite  the  lips  whose  shuddering  cry 
Proclaims  a  cruel  creed  a  lie  ? 
The  wizard's  rope  we  disallow 
Was  justice  once,  — is  murder  now  ! 

Is  there  a  world  of  blank  despair, 
And  dwells  the  Omnipresent  there  ? 
Does  He  behold  with  smile  serene 
The  shows  of  that  unending  scene, 
Where  sleepless,  hopeless  anguish  lies, 
And,  ever  dying,  never  dies  ? 
Say,  does  He  hear  the  sufferer's  groan, 
And  is  that  child  of  wrath  his  own  ? 

O  mortal,  wavering  in  thy  trust, 
Lift  thy  pale  forehead  from  the  dust ! 
The  mists  that  cloud  thy  darkened  eyes 
Fade  ere  they  reach  the  o'erarching  skies  ! 
When  the  blind  heralds  of  despair 
Would  bid  thee  doubt  a  Father's  care, 
Look  up  from  earth,  and  read  above 
On  heaven's  blue  tablet,  GOD  is  LOVE  ! 


AT   THE    TURN    OF    THE    ROAD 

THE  glory  has  passed  from  the  goldenrod's 

plume, 
The    purple-hued   asters    still     linger    in 

bloom: 
The  birch  is  bright  yellow,  the   sumachs 

are  red, 
The  maples  like  torches  aflame  overhead. 


But  what  if  the  joy  of  the  summer  is  past, 
And   winter's   wild   herald  is  blowing  his 

blast  ? 
For   me   dull   November  is  sweeter  than 

May, 
For  my  love  is  its  sunshine,  —  she  meets 

me  to-day  ! 

Will  she  come  ?  Will  the  ring-dove  re 
turn  to  her  nest  ? 

Will  the  needle  swing  back  from  the  east 
or  the  west  ? 

At  the  stroke  of  the  hour  she  will  be  at  her 
gate; 

A  friend  may  prove  laggard,  —  love  never 
comes  late. 

Do  I  see  her  afar  in  the  distance  ?     Not 

yet. 
Too  early  !     Too   early  !     She   could   not 

forget  ! 
When   I  cross  the  old   bridge   where  the 

brook  overflowed, 
She  will  flash  full  in  sight  at  the  turn  of 

the  road. 

I  pass  the  low  wall  where  the  ivy  entwines ; 
I  tread    the   brown    pathway   that   leads 

through  the  pines; 

I  haste  by  the  boulder  that  lies  in  the  field, 
Where  her  promise  at  parting  was  lovingly 

sealed. 

Will   she  come  by   the   hillside  or  round 

through  the  wood  ? 
Will   she   wear   her   brown   dress   or   her 

mantle  and  hood  ? 
The  minute  draws  near,  —  but  her  watch 

may  go  wrong; 
My  heart  will  be  asking,  What  keeps  her  so 

long  ? 

Why  doubt  for  a  moment  ?  More  shame 
if  I  do  ! 

Why  question  ?  Why  tremble  ?  Are  an 
gels  more  true  ? 

She  would  come  to  the  lover  who  calls  her 
his  own 

Though  she  trod  in  the  track  of  a  whirling 
cyclone  ! 

I  crossed  the  old  bridge  ere  the  minute  had 

passed. 
I  looked:  lo  !  my  Love  stood  before  me  at 

last. 


INVITA   MINERVA 


305 


Her  eyes,  liow  they  sparkled,  her  cheeks, 

how  they  glowed, 
As  we  met,  face  to  face,  at  the  turn  of  the 

road  ! 


INVITA   MINERVA 

I  find  the  burden  and  restrictions  of  rhyme 
more  and  more  troublesome  as  I  grow  older. 
There  are  times  when  it  seems  natural  enough 
to  employ  that  form  of  expression,  but  it  is 
only  occasionally;  and  the  use  of  it  as  a  vehi 
cle  of  the  commonplace  is  so  prevalent  that 
one  is  not  much  tempted  to  select  it  as  the 
medium  for  his  thoughts  and  emotions.  The 
art  of  rhyming-  has  almost  become  a  part  of  a 
high-school  education,  and  its  practice  is  far 
from  being1  an  evidence  of  intellectual  distinc 
tion.  Mediocrity  is  as  much  forbidden  to  the 
poet  in  our  days  as  it  was  in  those  of  Horace, 
and  the  immense  majority  of  the  verses  written 
are  stamped  with  hopeless  mediocrity. 

When  one  of  the  ancient  poets  found  he  was 
trying1  to  grind  out  verses  which  came  unwill 
ingly,  he  said  he  was  writing'  Invita  Minerva. 


VEX  not  the  Muse  with  idle  prayers,  — 

She  will  not  hear  thy  call; 
She  steals  upon  thee  unawares, 

Or  seeks  thee  not  at  all. 

Soft  as  the  moonbeams  when  they  sought 

Endymion's  fragrant  bower, 
She  parts  the  whispering  leaves  of  thought 

To  show  her  full-blown  flower. 

For  thee  her  wooing  hour  has  passed, 

The  singing  birds  have  flown, 
And  winter  comes  with  icy  blast 

To  chill  thy  buds  unblown. 

Yet,  though  the  woods  no  longer  thrill 

As  once  their  arches  rung, 
Sweet  echoes  hover  round  thee  still 

Of  songs  thy  summer  sung. 

Live  in  thy  past;  await  no  more 
The  rush  of  heaven-sent  wings; 

Earth  still  has  music  left  in  store 
While  Memory  sighs  and  sings. 


READINGS  OVER  THE  TEACUPS 


FIVE   STORIES   AND   A   SEQUEL 


[!N  his  volume,  Songs  in  Many  Keys,  Dr. 
Holmes  had  a  division,  Pictures  from  Occasional 
Poems-  He  discarded  his  sub-title  in  the  River- 


TO   MY   OLD    READERS 

You  know  "  The  Teacups,"  that  congenial 
set 

Which  round  the  Teapot  you  have  often 
met; 

The   grave  DICTATOR,   him  you  knew  of 
old, — 

Knew  as  the  shepherd  of  another  fold: 

Grayer   he   looks,   less   youthful,   but   the 
same 

As   when  you   called   him  by  a   different 

name. 

Near  him   the  MISTRESS,  whose   expe 
rienced  skill 

Has  taught  her  duly  every  cup  to  fill; 

"Weak;"    "strong;"    "cool;"    "luke 
warm;  "  "  hot  as  you  can  pour;  " 

"No    sweetening  ;  "    "  sugared;  "     "  two 

lumps;  "  "  one  lump  more." 
Next,  the  PROFESSOR,  whose  scholastic 
phrase 

At  every  turn   the   teacher's   tongue   be 
trays, 

Trying  so  hard  to  make  his  speech  precise 

The  captious  listener  finds  it  overnice. 
Nor  be  forgotten  our  ANNEXES  twain, 

Nor  HE,  the  owner  of  the  squinting  brain, 

Which,  while  its  curious  fancies  we  pursue, 

Oft   makes  us  question,   "  Are  we   crack- 
brained  too  ?  " 

Along  the   board   our  growing  list  ex 
tends, 

As  one   by  one   we   count   our   clustering 
friends,  — 

The  youthful  DOCTOR  waiting  for  his  share 

Of  fits  and   fevers  when   his   crown   gets 
bare ; 


side  Edition,  but  took  from  the  group  under 
that  title  five  stories  and  reproduced  them  in  a 
new  setting  under  the  above  title.] 

In    strong,    dark   lines   our  square-nibbed 

pen  should  draw 

The  lordly  presence  of  the  MAN  OF  LAW; 
Our    bashful    TUTOR    claims    a    humbler 

place, 

A  lighter  touch,  his  slender  form  to  trace. 
Mark  the  fair  lady  he  is  seated  by,  — 
Some  say  he  is  her  lover,  —  some  deny,  — 
Watch   them   together,  —  time   alone   can 

show 

If  dead-ripe  friendship  turns  to  love  or  no. 
Where  in  my  list  of  phrases  shall  I  seek 
The   fitting   words    of   NUMBER   FIVE  to 

speak  ? 
Such   task   demands   a   readier   pen   than 

mine,  — 

What  if  I  steal  the  Tutor's  Valentine  ? 
Why  should  I  call  her  gracious,  winning, 

fair  ? 

Why  with  the  loveliest  of  her  sex  compare  ? 
Those  varied  charms  have  many  a  Muse  in 
spired,  — 

At  last  their  worn  superlatives  have  tired  • 
Wit,  beauty,  sweetness,  each  alluring  grace, 
All  these  in  honeyed  verse  have  found  their 

place  j 

I  need  them  not,  —  two  little  tvords  I  find 
Which  hold  them  all  in  happiest  form  com 
bined  ; 

No  more  ivith  baffled  language  will  I  strive,  — 
All  in  one  breath  I  utter:  Number  Five  I 
Now  count  our  teaspoons  —  if  you  care 

to  learn 
How  many  tinkling   cups  were  served  in 

turn,  — 

Add  all  together,  you  will  find  them  ten,— 
Our  young  MUSICIAN  joined  us  now  and 
then. 


306 


THE   BANKER'S    SECRET 


3°7 


Our  bright  DELILAH  you  must  needs  re 
call, 

The  comely  handmaid,  youngest  of  us  all ; 
Need  I  remind  you  how  the  little  maid 
Came  at  a  pinch  to  our  Professor's  aid,  — 
Trimmed  his  long  locks  with   unrelenting 

shears 

And  eased   his   looks  of   half   a   score    of 
years  ? 

Sometimes,    at    table,    as    you    well   must 

know, 

The  stream  of  talk  will  all  at  once  run  low, 
The  air  seems  smitten  with  a  sudden  chill, 
The  wit  grows  silent  and  the  gossip  still; 
This  was  our  poet's   chance,  the    hour    of 

need, 
When  rhymes  and  stories  we  were  used  to 

read. 
One  day  a  whisper   round   the    teacups 

stole,  — 

"  No  scrap  of  paper  in  the  silver  bowl  !  " 
(Our  "  poet's  corner  "  may  I  not  expect 
My  kindly  reader  still  may  recollect  ?) 
"  What  !    not  a  line  to  keep  our  souls 

alive  ?  " 

Spoke  in  her  silvery  accents  Number  Five,    j 
"  No  matter,   something  we    must   find   to 

read,  — 

Find   it  or   make  it,  —  yes,  we    must  in 
deed  ! 

Now  I  remember  I  have  seen  at  times 
Some  curious  stories  in  a  book  of  rhymes,  — 
How  certain  secrets,  long  in  silence  sealed, 
In  after  days  were  guessed  at  or  revealed. 
Those  stories,  doubtless,  some  of  you  must 

know,  — 

They  all  were  written  many  a  year  ago; 
But  an  old  story,  be  it  false  or  true, 
Twice  told,  well  told,  is  twice  as   good  as 

new; 

Wait  but  three  sips  and  I  will  go  myself, 
And   fetch    the    book    of    verses   from    its 

shelf." 
No  time  was   lost   in  finding  what    she 

sought,  — 
Gone  but  one   moment.  —  lo  !  the  book  is 

brought. 

"Now,  then,  Professor,  fortune  has  de 
creed 
That  you,  this    evening,    shall  be  first   to 

read, — 

Lucky  for  us  that  listen,  for  in  fact 
Who  reads  this  poem  must  know  how  to 

act" 


Right  well  she  knew  that  in  his  greener 

age 

He  had  a  mighty  hankering  for  the  stage. 
The  patient  audience  had  not  long  to  wait; 
Pleased   with   his   chance,  he    smiled  and 

took  the  bait; 
Through  his  wild  hair  his  coaxing  fingers 

ran,  — 
He  spread  the  page  before  him  and  began. 


THE  BANKER'S   SECRET 

[When  first  published  this  bore  the  title  The 
Banker's  Dinner.] 

THE    Banker's   dinner   is   the    stateliest 

feast 

The  town  has  heard  of  for  a  year,  at  least ; 
The    sparry    lustres    shed   their    broadest 

blaze, 
Damask   and  silver  catch  and  spread  the 

rays; 
The  florist's  triumphs    crown  the  daintier 

spoil 

\Von  from  the  sea,  the  forest,  or  the  soil; 
The  steaming  hot-house  yields  its   largest 

pines, 
The    sunless    vaults    unearth    their    oldest 

wines ; 

With  one  admiring  look  the  scene  survey, 
And  turn  a  moment  from  the  bright  dis 
play. 

Of  all  the  joys  of  earthly  pride  or  power, 
What  gives  most  life,  worth  living,  in  an 

hour  ? 
When    Victory    settles     on     the    doubtful 

fight 
And   the    last    foeman  wheels    in   panting 

flight, 

No  thrill  like  this  is  felt  beneath  the  sun ; 
Life's  sovereign  moment  is  a  battle  won. 
But  say  what  next  ?    To  shape  a  Senate's 

choice, 

By  the  strong  magic  of  the  master's  voice; 
To  ride  the  stormy  tempest  of  debate 
That  whirls  the  wavering  fortunes  of  the 

state, 

Third  in  the  list,  the  happy  lover's  prize 
Is    won  by  honeyed  words  from  women's 

eyes. 

If  some  would  have  it  first  instead  of  third, 
So  let  it  be,  —  I  answer  not  a  word. 


3o8 


READINGS   OVER   THE   TEACUPS 


The    fourth,  —  sweet    readers,   let    the 

thoughtless  half 
Have     its    small    shrug    and    inoffensive 

laugh ; 
Let   the  grave  quarter  wear  its   virtuous 

frown, 
The   stern   half-quarter   try    to   scowl   us 

down ; 
But  the  last  eighth,  the  choice  and  sifted 

few, 
Will  hear  my  words,  and,  pleased,  confess 

them  true. 

Among    the   great   whom    Heaven   has 

made  to  shine, 
How  few  have  learned  the  art  of  arts,  — 

to  dine  ! 

Nature,  indulgent  to  our  daily  need, 
Kind-hearted   mother !    taught   us    all   to 

feed; 
But   the   chief   art,  —  how   rarely  Nature 

flings 

This  choicest  gift  among  her  social  kings  ! 
Say,  man  of  truth,  has  life  a  brighter  hour 
Than  waits  the  chosen  guest  who  knows 

his  power  ? 
He   moves   with   ease,   itself    an   angel 

charm,  — 
Lifts  with  light  touch  my  lady's  jewelled 

arm, 

Slides  to  his  seat,  half  leading  and  half  led, 
Smiling  but  quiet  till  the  grace  is  said, 
Then  gently  kindles,  while  by  slow  degrees 
Creep  softly  out  the  little  arts  that  please ; 
Bright  looks,  the  cheerful  language  of  the 

eye, 
The    neat,    crisp    question    and   the    gay 

reply,  — 

Talk  light  and  airy,  such  as  well  may  pass 
Between  the  rested  fork  and  lifted  glass;  — 
With  play  like  this  the  earlier  evening  flies, 
Till  rustling  silks  proclaim  the  ladies  rise. 
His   hour   has   come,  —  he    looks   along 

the  chairs, 
As   the    Great   Duke    surveyed    his    iron 

squares. 
That 's  the  young  traveller,  —  is  n't  much 

to  show,  — 

Fast  on  the  road,  but  at  the  table  slow. 
Next   him,  —  you  'see   the   author    in  his 

look,  — 
His   forehead   lined    with  wrinkles   like  a 

book,  — 
Wrote   the   great   history   of   the   ancient 

Huns,  — 


Holds  back  to  fire  among  the  heavy  guns. 
Oh,  there  's  our  poet  seated  at  his  side, 
Beloved  of  ladies,  soft,  cerulean-eyed. 
Poets  are  prosy  in  their  common  talk, 
As   the   fast  trotters,  for  the  most  part, 

walk. 
And   there  's  our  well-dressed  gentleman, 

who  sits, 

By  right  divine,  no  doubt,  among  the  wits, 
Who    airs  his   tailor's   patterns  when    he 

walks, 

The  man  that  often  speaks,  but  never  talks. 
Why  should  he  talk,  whose  presence  lends 

a  grace 

To  every  table  where  he  shows  his  face  ? 
He  knows  the  manual  of  the  silver  fork, 
Can  name  his  claret  —  if  he  sees  the  cork,  — 
Remark  that  "  White-top  "  was  considered 

fine, 

But  swear  the  "  Juno  "  is  the  better  wine ;  — 
Is  not  this  talking  ?  Ask  Quintilian's  rules ; 
If  they  say  No,  the  town  has  many  fools. 
Pause  for  a  moment,  —  for  our  eyes  behold 
The  plain  unsceptred  king,  the  man  of  gold, 
The  thrice  illustrious  threefold  million- 

naire ; 
Mark    his    slow-creeping,   dead,    metallic 

stare ; 

His  eyes,  dull  glimmering,  like  the  balance- 
pan 
That   weighs  its  guinea  as  he  weighs  his 

man. 

Who  's  next  ?     An  artist  in  a  satin  tie 
Whose  ample  folds  defeat  the  curious  eye. 
And  there  's  the  cousin,  —  must  be  asked, 

you  know,  — 

Looks  like  a  spinster  at  a  baby-show. 
Hope  he  is  cool,  —  they  set  him  next  the 

door,  — 
And  likes  his  place,  between  the  gap  and 

bore. 
Next  comes  a  Congressman,  distinguished 

guest  ! 
We   don't   count   him,  —  they   asked   him 

with  the  rest; 

And  then  some  white  cravats,  with  well- 
shaped  ties, 
And  heads  above  them  which  their  owners 

prize. 

Of  all  that  cluster  round    the    genial 

board, 

Not  one  so  radiant  as  the  banquet's  lord. 
Some  say  they  fancy,  but  they  know  not 

why, 


THE   BANKER'S    SECRET 


309 


A  shade  of  trouble  brooding  in  his  eye, 

Nothing,  perhaps, — the  rooms  are  over- 
hot,  — 

Yet  see  his  cheek,  —  the  dull-red  burning 
spot,  — 

Taste  the  brown  sherry  which  he  does  not 
pass,  — 

Ha  !  That  is  brandy ;  see  him  fill  his  glass  ! 
But  not  forgetful  of  his  feasting  friends, 

To  each  in  turn  some  lively  word  he  sends; 

See  how  he  throws  his  baited  lines  about, 

And  plays  his  men  as  anglers  play  their 
trout. 

With  the  dry  sticks  all  bonfires  are  be 
gun; 

Bring  the  first  fagot,  proser  number  one  ! 
A  question  drops  among  the  listening  crew 
And  hits  the  traveller,  pat  on  Timbuctoo. 
We  're  on  the  Niger,  somewhere  near  its 

source,  — 

Not  the  least  hurry,  take  the  river's  course 
Through  Kissi,  Foota,  Kankan,  Bammakoo, 
Bambarra,  Sego,  so  to  Timbuctoo, 
Thence  down  to  Youri;  —  stop  him  if  we 

can, 

We  can't  fare  worse,  — wake  up  the  Con 
gressman  ! 

The  Congressman,  once  on  his  talking  legs, 
Stirs  up  his  knowledge  to  its  thickest  dregs; 
Tremendous  draught  for  dining  men  to 

quaff  ! 
Nothing  will   choke   him   but   a  purpling 

laugh. 
A  word,  —  a  shout,  —  a  mighty  roar,  —  't  is 

done ; 
Extinguished;  lassoed  by  a  treacherous  pun. 

A  laugh  is  priming  to  the  loaded  soul; 
The  scattering  shots  become  a  steady  roll, 
Broke  by  sharp  cracks  that  run  along  the 

line, 

The  light  artillery  of  the  talker's  wine. 
The   kindling   goblets   flame    with  golden 

dews, 

The  hoarded  flasks  their  tawny  fire  diffuse, 
And  the  Rhine's  breast-milk  gushes  cold 

and  bright, 
Pale  as   the  moon  and  maddening  as  her 

light; 

With  crimson  juice  the  thirsty  southern  sky 
Sucks  from  the  hills  where  buried  armies 

lie, 

So  that  the  dreamy  passion  it  imparts 
Is  drawn  from  heroes'  bones  and  lovers' 

hearts. 


But   lulls  will  come;  the    flashing   soul 

transmits 

Its  gleams  of  light  in  alternating  fits. 
The  shower  of  talk  that  rattled  clown  amain 
Ends  in  small   patterings   like  an  April's 

rain ; 

The  voices  halt;  the  game  is  at  a  stand; 
Now  for  a  solo  from  the  master-hand  ! 
'T    is    but   a    story,  —  quite    a    simple 

thing,  — 

An  aria  touched  upon  a  single  string, 
But  every  accent  comes  with  such  a  grace 
The  stupid  servants  listen  in  their  place, 
Each  with  his  waiter  in  his  lifted  hands, 
Still  as  a  well-bred  pointer  when  he  stands. 
A  query  checks  him:  "  Is  he  quite  exact  ?  " 
(This  from  a  grizzled,  square-jawed  man 

of  fact.) 

The  sparkling  story  leaves  him  to  his  fate, 
Crushed  by  a   witness,  smothered  with  a 

date, 

As  a  swift  river,  sown  with  many  a  star, 
Runs  brighter,  rippling  on  a  shallow  bar. 
The  smooth  divine  suggests  a  graver  doubt; 
A  neat  quotation  bowls  the  parson  out; 
Then,  sliding  gayly  from  his  own  display, 
He  laughs  the  learned  dulness  all  away. 

So,  with  the  merry  tale  and  jovial  song, 
The  jocund  evening  whirls  itself  along, 
Till  the  last  chorus  shrieks  its  loud  encore, 
And  the  white  neckcloths  vanish  through 

the  door. 

One  savage  word  !  —  The  menials  know 

its  tone, 

And  slink  away;  the  master  stands  alone. 
"  Well  played,  by  —   —  ; "  breathe  not  what 

were  best  unheard; 
His   goblet    shivers    while   he    speaks   the 

word,  — 
"  If  wine  tells  truth,  —  and  so  have   said 

the  wise,  — 
It  makes  me  laugh  to  think  how  brandy 

lies  ! 

Bankrupt    to  -  morrow,  —  millionnaire    to 
day,  — 

The  farce  is  over,  —  now  begins  the  play  !  " 
The  spring  he  touches  lets  a  panel  glide; 
An  iron  closet  lurks  beneath  the  slide, 
Bright    with    such    treasures    as    a    search 

might  bring 

From  the  deep  pockets  of  a  truant  king. 
Two  diamonds,  eyeballs  of  a  god  of  bronze, 
Bought   from  his  faithful  priest,  a   pious 

bonze, 


3io 


READINGS   OVER  THE  TEACUPS 


A  string  of  brilliants;  rubies,  three  or  four; 

Bags  of  old  coin  and  bars  of  virgin  ore; 

A  jewelled  poniard  and  a  Turkish  knife, 

Noiseless  and  useful  if  we  come  to  strife. 
Gone  !     As  a  pirate  flies  before  the  wind, 

And  not  one  tear  for  all  he  leaves  behind  ! 

From  all  the  love  his  better  years  have 
known 

Fled  like  a  felon,  —  ah  !  but  not  alone  ! 

The  chariot  flashes  through  a  lantern's 
glare, — 

Oh  the  wild  eyes  !  the  storm  of  sable  hair  ! 

Still  to  his  side  the  broken  heart  will 
cling,  — 

The  bride  of  shame,  the  wife  without  the 
ring: 

Hark,  the  deep  oath,  —  the  wail  of  fren 
zied  woe,  — 

Lost !  lost  to  hope  of  Heaven  and  peace 
below  ! 

He  kept  his  secret;  but  the  seed  of  crime 

Bursts  of  itself  in  God's  appointed  time. 

The  lives  he  wrecked  were  scattered  far 
and  wide; 

One  never  blamed  nor  wept,  —  she  only 
died. 

None  knew  his  lot,  though  idle  tongues 
would  say 

He  sought  a  lonely  refuge  far  away, 

And  there,  with  borrowed  name  and  al 
tered  mien, 

He  died  unheeded,  as  he  lived  unseen. 

The  moral  market  had  the  usual  chills 

Of  Virtue  suffering  from  protested  bills; 

The  White  Cravats,  to  friendship's  mem 
ory  true, 

Sighed  for  the  past,  surveyed  the  future 
too; 

Their  sorrow  breathed  in  one  expressive 
line,  — 

"  Gave  pleasant  dinners ;  who  has  got  his 
wine  ?  " 


The  reader  paused,  —  the  Teacups  knew 

his  ways,  — 

He,  like  the  rest,  was  not  averse  to  praise. 
Voices  and  hands  united;  every  one 
Joined  in  approval  :  "  Number  Three,  well 

done!" 

"  Now  for  the  Exile's  story;  if  my  wits 
Are  not  at  fault,  his  curious  record  fits 
Neatly  as  sequel  to  the  tale  we  've  heard ; 


Not  wholly  wild  the  fancy,  nor  absurd 
That  this  our  island  hermit  well  might  be 
That  story's  hero,  fled  from  over  sea. 
Come,  Number  Seven,  we  would  not  have 

you  strain 

The  fertile  powers  of  that  inventive  brain. 
Read    us   'The    Exile's   Secret;'   there's 

enough 

Of  dream-like  fiction  and  fantastic  stuff 
In  the  strange  web  of  mystery  that  invests 
The  lonely  isle  where  sea  birds  build  their 

nests." 

"  Lies  !   naught  but  lies  ! "   so  Number 

Seven  began,  — 

No  harm  was  known  of  that  secluded  man. 
He    lived    alone,  —  who   wouldn't    if    he 

might, 
And  leave   the  rogues   and  idiots   out  of 

sight  ? 

A  foolish  story,  —  still,  I  ?11  do  my  best,  — 
The   house  was  real,  —  don't   believe   the 

rest. 

How  could  a  ruined  dwelling  last  so  long 
Without   its   legends   shaped   in   tale  and 

song  ? 
Who  was  this  man  of  whom  they  tell  the 

lies? 

Perhaps  —  why  not  ?  —  NAPOLEON  !  in  dis 
guise,  — 
So  some  said,  kidnapped  from  his  ocean 

coop, 

Brought  to  this  island  in  a  coasting  sloop,  — 
Meanwhile  a  sham  Napoleon  in  his  place 
Played  Nap.  and  saved  Sir  Hudson  from 

disgrace. 

Such  was  one  story;  others  used  to  say, 
"  No,  —  not   Napoleon,  —  it   was   Marshal 

Ney." 
«  Shot  ?  "     Yes,  no  doubt,  but  not  with  balls 

of  lead, 
But  balls  of   pith  that  never  shoot   folks 

dead. 
He  wandered  round,  lived  South  for  many 

a  year, 
At  last  came  North  and  fixed  his  dwelling 

here. 
Choose  which  you  will  of  all  the  tales  that 

pile 
Their  mingling  fables  on  the  tree-crowned 

isle. 

Who  wrote  this  modest  version  I  suppose 
That  truthful  Teacup,  our  Dictator,  knows ; 
Made  up  of  various  legends,  it  would  seem, 
The  sailor's  yarn,  the  crazy  poet's  dream. 


THE   EXILE'S    SECRET 


311 


Such  tales  as  this,  by  simple  souls  received, 
At  first  are  stared  at  and  at  last  believed ; 
From  threads  like  this  the  grave  historians 

try 
To  weave  their  webs,  and  never  know  they 

lie. 
Hear,  then,  the  fables  that  have  gathered 

round 
The  lonely  home  an  exiled  stranger  found. 


THE    EXILE'S    SECRET 
[Originally  entitled  The  Island  Ruin.] 

YE  that  have  faced  the  billows  and  the  spray 
Of  good  St.  Botolph's  island-studded  bay, 
As   from   the    gliding    bark  your  eye  has 

scanned 
The  beaconed  rocks,  the  wave-girt  hills  of 

sand, 
Have  ye  not  marked  one  elm-o'ershadowed 

isle, 
Hound   as   the    dimple  chased  in  beauty's 

smile,  — 

A  stain  of  verdure  on  an  azure  field, 
Set  like  a  jewel  in  a  battered  shield  ? 
Fixed  in  the  narrow  gorge  of  Ocean's  path, 
Peaceful  it  meets  him  in  his  hour  of  wrath; 
When  the  mailed  Titan,  scourged  by  hissing- 
gales, 
Writhes  in  his  glistening  coat  of  clashing 

scales, 
The  storm-beat  island  spreads  its  tranquil 

green, 

Calm  as  an  emerald  on  an  angry  queen. 
So  fair  when   distant   should    be    fairer 

near ; 
A  boat  shall  wraft  us  from  the  outstretched 

pier. 
The    breeze    blows   fresh;    we    reach   the 

island's  edge, 
Our  shallop  rustling  through  the  yielding 

sedge. 

No  welcome  greets  us  on  the  desert  isle; 
Those  elms,  far-shadowing,  hide  no  stately 

pile : 
Yet  these  green    ridges  mark   an  ancient 

road ; 

And  lo  !  the  traces  of  a  fair  abode ; 
The  long  gray  line  that  marks  a  garden- 
wall, 
And  heaps  of  fallen  beams,  —  fire-branded 

all. 


Who  sees  unmoved,  a  ruin  at  his  feet, 
The  lowliest   home    where    human   hearts 

have  beat  ? 

Its  hearthstone,  shaded  witli  the  bistre  stain 
A  century's  showery  torrents  wash  in  vain; 
Its  starving  orchard,  where  the  thistle  blows 
And  inossy  trunks  still  mark  the  broken 

rows ; 

Its  chimney-loving  poplar,  oftenest  seen 
Next  an  old  roof,  or  where  a  roof  has  been ; 
Its   knot-grass,    plantain,  —  all   the    social 

weeds, 
Man's  mute  companions,   following  where 

he  leads; 
Its  dwarfed,  pale  flowers,  that  show  their 

straggling  heads, 
Sown   by    the    wind     from     grass-choked 

garden-beds; 
Its    woodbine,    creeping   where  it  used  to 

climb; 

Its  roses,  breathing  of  the  olden  time; 
All  the  poor  shows  the  curious  idler  sees, 
As  life's  thin  shadows  waste  by  slow  de 
grees, 
Till  naught  remains,  the  saddening  talc  to 

tell, 
Save  home's  last  wrecks,  —  the  cellar  and 

the  well  ? 

And    whose    the    home     that   strews   in 

black  decay 

The  one  green-glowing  island  of  the  bay  ? 
Some  dark-browed  pirate's,  jealous  of  the 

fate 
That  seized  the  strangled  wretch  of  "  Nix's 

Mate  "  ? 
Some    forger's,    skulking    in    a     borrowed 

name, 
Whom   Tyburn's  dangling  halter  yet  may 

claim  ? 
Some  wan-eyed  exile's,  wealth  and  sorrow's 

heir, 
Who   sought  a  lone  retreat  for  tears  and 

prayer  ? 
Some   brooding    poet's,  sure    of   deathless 

fame, 

Had  not  his  epic  perished  in  the  flame  ? 
Or   some   gray     wooer's,  whom   a   girlish 

frown 
Chased   from   his    solid  friends  and  sober 

town  ? 
Or  some  plain  tradesman's,  fond  of  shade 

and  ease, 
Who  sought  them  both  beneath  these  quiet 

trees  ? 


312 


READINGS   OVER   THE   TEACUPS 


Why  question  mutes  no  question  can  un 
lock, 

Dumb  as  the  legend  on  the  Dighton  rock  ? 

One  thing  at  least  these  ruined  heaps  de 
clare,  — 

They  were  a  shelter  once;  a  man  lived 
there. 

But   where   the  charred  and  crumbling 

records  fail, 

Some   breathing  lips  may  piece  the  half- 
told  tale; 
No  man  may  live  with  neighbors  such  as 

these, 
Though  girt  with  walls  of  rock  and  angry 

seas, 
And  shield  his  home,  his  children,  or  his 

wife, 
His  ways,  his  means,  his  vote,  his  creed, 

his  life, 
From  the  dread  sovereignty  of  Ears  and 

Eyes 
And  the  small  member  that  beneath  them 

lies. 

They  told  strange  things  of  that  myste 
rious  man; 

Believe  who  will,  deny  them  such  as  can; 
Why  should  we  fret  if  every  passing  sail 
Had  its  old  seaman  talking  on  the  rail  ? 
The     deep-sunk     schooner     stuffed     with 

Eastern  lime, 
Slow  wedging  on,  as   if   the  waves  were 

slime ; 
The  knife-edged  clipper  with   her  ruffled 

spars, 
The   pawing   steamer   with   her  mane   of 

stars, 
The  bull-browed   galliot   butting    through 

the  stream, 
The  wide-sailed  yacht   that  slipped  along 

her  beam, 
The  deck-piled  sloops,  the  pinched  chebacco- 

boats, 
The  frigate,  black  with  thunder-freighted 

throats, 

All  had  their  talk  about  the  lonely  man; 
And  thus,  in  varying  phrase,  the  story  ran. 
His   name   had   cost   him   little  care  to 

seek, 
Plain,   honest,   brief,   a    decent    name   to 

speak, 
Common,   not   vulgar,   just  the  kind  that 

slips 
With   least    suggestion   from  a  stranger's 

lips. 


His  birthplace  England,  as  his  speech 
might  show, 

Or  his  hale  cheek,  that  wore  the  red- 
streak's  glow; 

His  mouth  sharp-moulded;  in  its  mirth  or 
scorn 

There  came  a  flash  as  from  the  milky  corn, 

When  from  the  ear  you  rip  the  rustling 
sheath, 

And  the  white  ridges  show  their  even  teeth. 

His  stature  moderate,  but  his  strength  con 
fessed, 

In  spite  of  broadcloth,  by  his  ample  breast; 

Full-armed,  thick-handed;  one  that  had 
been  strong, 

And  might  be  dangerous  still,  if  things 
went  wrong. 

He  lived  at  ease  beneath  his  elm-trees' 
shade, 

Did  naught  for  gain,  yet  all  his  debts  were 
paid ; 

Rich,  so 't  was  thought,  but  careful  of  his 
store ; 

Had  all  he  needed,  claimed  to  have  no  more. 

But  some  that  lingered  round  the  isle  at 

night 
Spoke  of  strange  stealthy  doings  in  their 

sight; 

Of  creeping  lonely  visits  that  he  made 
To   nooks   and  corners,  with  a  torch  and 

spade. 

Some  said  they  saw  the  hollow  of  a  cave; 
One,  given  to  fables,  swore  it  was  a  grave; 
Whereat   some   shuddered,   others    boldly 

cried, 
Those   prowling  boatmen   lied,  and  knew 

they  lied. 
They    said   his  house  was  framed   with 

curious  cares, 

Lest  some  old  friend  might  enter  unawares; 
That  on  the  platform  at  his  chamber's  door 
Hinged  a  loose  square  that  opened  through 

the  floor; 

Touch  the  black  silken  tassel  next  the  bell, 
Down,  with  a  crash,  the  flapping  trap-door 

fell; 
Three  stories  deep  the  falling  wretch  would 

strike, 

To  writhe  at  leisure  on  a  boarder's  pike. 
By  day  armed  always;  double-armed  at 

night, 
His   tools  lay  round  him;  wake  him  such 

as  might. 
A  carbine  hung  beside  his  India  fan, 


THE   LOVER'S    SECRET 


His  hand  could  reach  a  Turkish  ataghan; 
Pistols,  with  quaint-carved  stocks  and  bar 
rels  gilt, 

Crossed  a  long  dagger  with  a  jewelled  hilt; 
A   slashing    cutlass    stretched    along    the 

bed;  — 

All  this  was  what  those  lying  boatmen  said. 
Then  some  were  full  of  wondrous  stories 

told 
Of  great  oak  chests  and  cupboards  full  of 

gold; 

Of  the  wedged  ingots  and  the  silver  bars 
That  cost  old  pirates  ugly  sabre-scars; 
How  his  laced  wallet  often  would  disgorge 
The    fresh -faced    guinea   of   an    English 

George, 

Or  sweated  ducat,  palmed  by  Jews  of  yore, 
Or  double  Joe,  or  Portuguese  moidore; 
And  how  his  finger  wore  a  rubied  ring 
Fit  for  the  white-necked  play-girl  of  a  king. 
But   these  fine  legends,  told  with  staring 

eyes, 
Met  with  small  credence  from  the  old  and 

wise. 

Why  tell  each  idle  guess,  each  whisper 
vain  ? 

Enough:  the  scorched  and  cindered  beams 
remain. 

He  came,  a  silent  pilgrim  to  the  West, 

Some  old-world  mystery  throbbing  in  his 
breast; 

Close  to  the  thronging  mart  he  dwelt  alone ; 

He  lived  ;  he  died.  The  rest  is  all  un 
known. 

Stranger,  whose  eyes  the    shadowy  isle 

survey, 
As  the  black  steamer  dashes  through  the 

bay, 

Why  ask  his  buried  secret  to  divine  ? 
He   was   thy  brother;  speak,  and   tell    us 

thine  ! 


Silence  at  first,  a  kind  of  spell-bound 
pause ; 

Then  all  the  Teacups  tinkled  their  applause; 

When  that  was  hushed  no  sound  the  still 
ness  broke 

Till  once  again  the  soft-voiced  lady  spoke: 

"  The  Lover's  Secret,  —  surely  that  must 

need 
The  youngest  voice  our  table  holds  to  read. 


Which   of   our   two    '  Annexes '   shall    we 

choose  ? 

Either  were  charming,  neither  will  refuse; 
But  choose  we  must,  —  what  better  can  we 

do 
Than  take  the    younger  of    the    youthful 

two  ?  " 

True  to  the  primal  instinct  of  her  sex, 
"  Why,    that    means   me,"  half  whispered 

each  Annex. 
"  What  if  it  does  ?  "  the  voiceless  question 

came, 
That  set  those  pale  New  England  cheeks 

aflame ; 
"  Our  old-world  scholar  may  have  ways  to 

teach 
Of     Oxford      English,     Britain's      purest 

speech,  — 

She  shall  be  youngest,  —  youngest  for  to 
day,  — 

Our  dates  we  '11  fix  hereafter  as  we  may; 
All  right*  reserved,  —  the  words  we  know  so 

well, 
That  guard  the  claims  of  books  which  never 

sell." 

The  British  maiden  bowed  a  pleased  as 
sent, 

Her  two  long-  ringlets  swinging  as  she  bent; 
The  glistening  eyes  her  eager  soul  looked 

through 

Betrayed  her  lineage  in  their  Saxon  blue. 
Backward  she  flung  each  too  obtrusive  curl 
And  thus  began,  —  the  rose-lipped  English 

fifirl. 


THE  LOVER'S  SECRET 

[When  first  published  this  poem  was  entitled 
The  Mysterious  Illness.] 

WHAT  ailed  young  Lucius  ?  Art  had 
vainly  tried 

To  guess  his  ill,  and  found  herself  defied. 

The  Augur  plied  his  legendary  skill; 

Useless;  the  fair  young  Roman  languished 
still. 

His  chariot  took  him  every  cloudless  day 

Along  the  Pincian  Hill  or  Appian  Way; 

They  rubbed  his  wasted  limbs  with  sul 
phurous  oil, 

Oozed  from  the  far-off  Orient's  heated  soil ; 

They  led  him  tottering  down  the  steamy 
path 

Where  bubbling  fountains  filled  the  ther 
mal  bath ; 


READINGS  OVER  THE  TEACUPS 


Borne  in  his  litter  to  Egeria's  cave, 

They  washed  him,   shivering,   in   her  icy 

wave. 
They  sought  all  curious  herbs  and  costly 

stones, 
They  scraped  the  moss  that  grew  on  dead 

men's  bones, 
They   tried   all   cures   the   votive    tablets 

taught, 
Scoured  every  place  whence  healing  drugs 

were  brought, 
O'er  Thracian  hills  his  breathless  couriers 

ran, 
His  slaves  waylaid  the  Syrian  caravan. 

At  last  a  servant  heard  a  stranger  speak 
A  new  chirurgeon's  name;  a  clever  Greek, 
Skilled  in  his  art;  from  Pergamus  he  came 
To  Rome  but  lately;  GALEN  was  the  name. 
The  Greek  was  called:  a  man  with  piercing 

eyes, 
Who  must  be  cunning,  and  who  might  be 

wise. 
He  spoke  but  little,  —  if  they  pleased,  he 

said, 

He  'd  wait  awhile  beside  the  sufferer's  bed. 
So  by  his  side  he  sat,  serene  and  calm, 
His  very  accents  soft  as  healing  balm; 
Not  curious  seemed,  but  every  movement 

spied, 
His  sharp  eyes  searching  where  they  seemed 

to  glide; 
Asked  a  few  questions,  —  what  he  felt,  and 

where  ? 
"  A  pain  just  here,"  "  A  constant  beating 

there." 
Who  ordered   bathing  for  his   aches  and 

ails? 

"  Charmis,   the    water-doctor    from    Mar 
seilles." 

What  was  the  last  prescription  in  his  case  ? 
"  A  draught  of  wine  with  powdered  chryso- 

prase." 

Had  he  no  secret  grief  he  nursed  alone  ? 
A    pause ;    a    little    tremor  ;     answer,  — 

"None." 
Thoughtful,  a  moment,  sat  the  cunning 

leech, 
And    muttered    "  Eros ! "    in    his    native 

speech. 
In    the    broad    atrium   various    friends 

await 
The  last  new  utterance  from  the  lips   of 

fate; 

Men,  matrons,  maids,  they  talk  the  ques 
tion  o'er, 


And,  restless,  pace  the  tessellated  floor. 

Not   unobserved   the   youth    so   long   had 
pined 

By    gentle-hearted    dames     and    damsels 
kind ; 

One  with  the  rest,  a  rich  Patrician's  pride, 

The   lady   Hermia,    called    "the    ffolden- 
eyed;" 

The  same  the  old  Proconsul  fain  must  woo, 

Whom,  one  dark  night,  a  masked  sicarius 
slew; 

The    same    black    Crassus    over   roughly 
pressed 

To  hear  his  suit, —  the  Tiber  knows  the 
rest. 

(Crassus  was  missed  next  morning  by  his 
set; 

Next  week  the  fishers  found  him  in  their 
net.) 

She  with  the  others  paced  the  ample  hall, 

Fairest,  alas  !  and  saddest  of  them  all. 
At  length  the  Greek  declared,  with  puz 
zled  face, 

Some  strange  enchantment  mingled  in  the 
case, 

And  naught  would  serve  to  act  as  counter- 
charm 

Save  a  warm  bracelet  from  a  maiden's  arm. 

Not    every   maiden's,  —  many    might    be 
tried; 

Which   not   in  vain,  experience  must   de 
cide. 

Were  there  no  damsels  willing  to  attend 

And  do  such  service  for  a  suffering  friend  ? 
The  message  passed  among  the  waiting 
crowd, 

First  in  a  whisper,  then  proclaimed  aloud. 

Some  wore   no   jewels  ;   some  were  disin 
clined, 

For  reasons  better  guessed  at  than  defined ; 

Though    all   were   saints,  —  at   least  pro 
fessed  to  be,  — 

The  list  all  counted,  there  were  named  but 

three. 

The  leech,  still  seated  by  the  patient's 
side, 

Held   his   thin    wrist,    and    watched   him, 

eagle-eyed. 
Aurelia  first,  a  fair-haired  Tuscan  girl, 

Slipped  off  her  golden  asp,   with  eyes  of 
pearl. 

His    solemn    head    the    grave     physician 
shook ; 

The  waxen   features  thanked   her  with    a 
look. 


THE    STATESMAN'S    SECRET 


Olympia  next,  a  creature  half  divine, 
Sprung  from  the  blood   of  old  Evander's 

line, 
Held  her  white   arm,  that  wore   a  twisted 

chain 

Clasped  with  an  opal-sheeny  cymophane. 
In    vain,    O    daughter  !    said   the    baffled 

Greek. 
The  patient  sighed  the  thanks  he  could  not 

speak. 
Last,  Hermia  entered;  look,  that  sudden 

start  ! 
The    pallium    heaves    above    his    leaping  ' 

heart ; 
The  beating  pulse,  the  cheek's  rekindled 

flame, 

Those    quivering  lips,  the  secret  all  pro 
claim. 
The  deep    disease    long  throbbing   in    the   ! 

breast, 

The  dread  enchantment,  all  at  once  con 
fessed  ! 
The  case  was  plain;  the  treatment  was  be-  J 

gun; 
And  Love  soon  cured  the  mischief  he  had   , 

done. 
Young    Love,    too    oft    thy    treacherous   j 

bandage  slips 

Down  from  the  eyes  it  blinded  to  the  lips  ! 
Ask  not   the    Gods,  O   youth,  for   clearer 

sight, 
But  the    bold   heart   to   plead    thy    cause 

aright. 
And   tliou,  fair   maiden,  when  thy   lovers 

sigh, 
Suspect  thy  flattering  ear,  but  trust  thine 

eye; 

And  learn  this  secret  from  the  tale  of  old: 
No  love  so  true  as  love  that  dies  untold. 


"  Bravo,  Annex  !  "  they  shouted,    every 

one,  — 

"  Not  Mrs.  Kemble's  self  had  better  done." 
"  Quite  so,"    she  stammered  in   her   awk 
ward  way,  — 

Xot   just    the    thing,    but    something   she 
must  say. 

The  teaspoon  chorus  tinkled  to  its  close 
When  from  his  chair   the    MAN  OF  LA\\ 

arose, 
Called    by  her   voice    whose    mandate    all   j 

obeyed, 


And  took  the  open  volume  she  displayed. 
Tall,  stately,  strong,  his  form  begins  to  own 
Some    slight    exuberance     in    its    central 

zone,  — 

That  comely  fulness  of  the  growing  girth 
Which    fifty   summers    lend   the   sons    of 

earth. 
A  smooth,  round  disk  about  whose  margin 

stray, 
Above  the    temples,  glistening  threads  of 

gray; 

Strong,  deep-cut  grooves  by  toilsome  de 
cades  wrought 
On  brow  and  mouth,  the    battle-fields   of 

thought; 

A  voice  that  lingers  in  the  listener's  ear, 
Grave,    calm,    far-reaching,    every    accent 

clear,  — 
(Those    tones   resistless    many  a   foreman 

knew 
That  shaped  their  verdict  ere   the  twelve 

withdrew;) 
A    statesman's    forehead,    athlete's    throat 

and  jaw, 
Such  the  proud  semblance  of  the  Man  of 

Law. 

His  eye  just  lighted  on  the  printed  leaf, 
Held  as  a  practised  pleader  holds  his  brief. 
One  whispered  softlv  from  behind  his  cup, 
"  He  does  not  read,  —  his  book  is  wrong 

side  up  ! 
He    knows    the    story    that    it    holds   by 

heart,  — 
So  like  his  own  !     How  well  he  '11  act  his 

part  !  " 

Then  all  were  silent;  not  a  rustling  fan 
Stirred   the    deep   stillness    as    the    voice 

began. 


THE   STATESMAN'S    SECRET 
[Formerly  The  Disappointed  Statesman.^ 

WHO  of  all  statesmen   is  his    country's 

pride, 
Her   councils'  prompter  and  her  leaders' 

guide  ? 
He  speaks;  the  nation  holds  its  breath  to 

hear; 

He  nods,  and  shakes  the  sunset  hemisphere. 
Born  where  the    primal  fount   of   Xature 

springs 
By   the    rude    cradles   of    her    throneless 

kings, 


READINGS  OVER  THE  TEACUPS 


In  his  proud  eye  her  royal  signet  flames, 
By  his  own  lips  her  Monarch  she  proclaims. 
Why  name  his  countless  triumphs,  whom 

to  meet 

Is  to  be  famous,  envied  in  defeat  ? 
The  keen  debaters,  trained  to  brawls  and 

strife, 
Who  fire   one  shot,   and   finish    with    the 

knife, 
Tried  him  but  once,  and,  cowering  in  their 

shame, 
Ground  their  hacked  blades  to  strike   at 

meaner  game. 

The  lordly  chief,  his  party's  central  stay, 
Whose  lightest  word  a  hundred  votes  obey, 
Found  a  new  listener  seated  at  his  side, 
Looked  in  his  eye,  and  felt  himself  defied, 
Flung  his  rash  gauntlet  on  the  startled  floor, 
Met    the    all  -  conquering,    fought,  —  and 

ruled  no  more. 
See  where  he  moves,  what  eager  crowds 

attend  ! 

What  shouts   of  thronging  multitudes  as 
cend  ! 

If  this  is  life,  —  to  mark  with  every  hour 
The  purple  deepening  in  his  robes  of 

power, 

To  see  the  painted  fruits  of  honor  fall 
Thick  at  his  feet,  and  choose  among  them 

all, 

To  hear  the  sounds  that  shape  his  spread 
ing  name 
Peal  through   the   myriad   organ-stops   of 

fame, 
Stamp  the  lone  isle  that  spots  the  seaman's 

chart, 

And  crown  the  pillared  glory  of  the  mart, 
To  count  as  peers  the  few  supremely  wise 
Who  mark  their  planet  in  the  angels' 

eyes,— 
If  this  is  life  — 

What  savage  man  is  he 
Who  strides  alone  beside  the  sounding  sea  ? 
Alone  he  wanders  by  the  murmuring  shore, 
His  thoughts  as  restless  as  the  waves  that 

roar; 

Looks  on  the  sullen  sky  as  stormy-browed 
As  on  the  waves  yon  tempest-brooding 

cloud, 
Heaves   from  his  aching  breast  a  wailing 

sigh, 

Sad  as  the  gust  that  sweeps  the  clouded  sky. 
Ask  him  his  griefs;  what  midnight  demons 

plough 
The  lines  of  torture  on  his  lofty  brow; 


Unlock   those   marble   lips,  and  bid  them 

speak 
The   mystery    freezing   in    his    bloodless 

cheek. 

His  secret  ?     Hid  beneath  a  flimsy  word ; 
One  foolish  whisper  that  ambition  heard; 
And  thus   it   spake:  "Behold   yon   gilded 

chair, 
The  world's  one  vacant  throne,  —  thy  place 

is  there  ! " 

Ah,  fatal  dream  !     What  warning  spec 
tres  meet 

In  ghastly  circle  round  its  shadowy  seat  ! 
Yet  still  the  Tempter  murmurs  in  his  ear 
The  maddening  taunt  he  cannot  choose  but 

hear: 

"  Meanest  of  slaves,  by  gods  and  men  ac 
curst, 

He  who  is  second  when  he  might  be  first  ! 
Climb  with  bold  front  the  ladder's  topmost 

round, 
Or   chain   thy   creeping    footsteps   to   the 

ground  ! " 
Illustrious  Dupe  !    Have  those  majestic 

eyes 
Lost  their  proud   fire    for   such   a   vulgar 

prize  ? 

Art  thou  the  last  of  all  mankind  to  know 
That  party-fights  are  won  by  aiming  low  ? 
Thou,  stamped  by  Nature  with  her  royal 

sign, 

That  party-hirelings  hate  a  look  like  thine  ? 
Shake  from  thy  sense   the   wild   delusive 

dream  ! 

Without  the  purple,  art  thou  not  supreme  ? 
And  soothed  by  love  unbought,  thy  heart 

shall  own 
A  nation's  homage  nobler  than  its  throne  ! 


Loud  rang  the  plaudits;  with  them  rose  the 

thought, 
"  Would  he  had  learned  the  lesson  he  has 

taught ! " 

Used  to  the  tributes  of  the  noisy  crowd, 
The   stately   speaker    calmly   smiled   and 

bowed; 

The  fire  within  a  flushing  cheek  betrayed, 
And  eyes  that  burned  beneath  their  pent 
house  shade. 

"The  clock  strikes  ten,  the   hours   are 

flying  fast,  — 

Now,  Number  Five,   we've  kept  you  till 
the  last ! " 


THE   MOTHER'S    SECRET 


What  music  charms  like  those  caressing 
tones 

Whose  magic  influence  every  listener 
owns,  — 

Where  all  the  woman  finds  herself  ex 
pressed, 

And  Heaven's  divinest  effluence  breathes 
confessed  ? 

Such  was  the  breath  that  wooed  our  rav 
ished  ears, 

Sweet  as  the  voice  a  dreaming  vestal  hears;   j   Told    how   the    skies    with     sudden   glory 

Soft  as  the  murmur  of  a  brooding  dove, 

It  told  the  mystery  of  a  mother's  love. 


On  the  coarse  straw  that  strewed  the  reek 
ing  ground ; 

One  dim  retreat  a  flickering  torch  be 
trayed,  — 

In  that  poor  cell    the    Lord    of  Life    was 


The    wondering    shepherds     told    their 

breathless  tale 
Of  the  bright  choir  that  woke  the  sleeping 


THE  MOTHER'S  SECRET 
[Originally  .1  Mot  fur' a  Secret.] 

How  sweet    the  sacred  legend — if  un- 

blamed 
In  my    slight    verse  such  holy  things  are 

named  — 

Of  Mary's  secret  hours  of  hidden  joy, 
Silent,  but  pondering  on  her  wondrous  boy  ! 
Ave,  Maria  !     Pardon,  if  I  wrong 
Those    heavenly    words     that     shame    un 
earthly  song  ! 
The  choral  host  had  closed  the  Angel's 

strain 
Sung  to  the  listening  watch  on  Bethlehem's 

plain, 
And  now  the  shepherds,  hastening  on  their 

way, 
Sought  the  still  hamlet  where  the  Infant 

lay. 
They  passed  the  fields  that  gleaning  Ruth 

toiled  o'er,  — 

They  saw  afar  the  ruined  threshing-floor 
Where  Moab's  daughter,  homeless  and  for- 


Found    Boaz  slumbering  by  his    heaps    of 

corn ; 

And  some  remembered  how  the  holy  scribe, 
Skilled  in  the  lore  of  every  jealous  tribe, 
Traced  the  warm  blood  of  Jesse's  royal  son 
To  that  fair  alien,  bravely  wooed  and  won. 
So  fared  they  on  to  seek  the  promised  sign, 
That  marked  the  anointed  heir  of  David's 

line. 
At  last,  by  forms  of  earthly  semblance 

led, 
They  found   the    crowded   inn,  the  oxen's 

shed. 
No  pomp  was  there,  no  glory  shone  around 


flamed, 

Told  how  the  shining  multitude  proclaimed, 

'•Joy,  joy  to  earth  I     Behold  the  hallowed 
morn  ! 

In  David's  city  Christ  the  Lord  is  born  ! 

'Glory  to  God  ! '  let  angels  shout  on  high, 

'  Good-will  to  men  ! '  the  listening  esu-th  iv- 

ply!" 

They  spoke  with  hurried  words  and  ac 
cents  wild  ; 

Calm  in  his  cradle  slept  the  heavenly  child. 

No  trembling1  word    the  mother's  joy    re 
vealed,  — 

One  sigh    of    rapture,  and    her    lips    were 
sealed ; 

Unmoved  she  saw  the  rustic  train  depart, 

But  kept    their    words    to    ponder    in    her 
heart. 

Twelve  years   had  passed;  the  boy  was 
fair  and  tall, 

Growing  in  wisdom,  finding  grace  with  all. 

The  maids  of  Nazareth,  as  they  trooped  to 
fill 

Their  balanced  urns  beside  the  mountain 
rill, 

The   gathered    matrons,    as    they    sat    and 
spun, 

Spoke  in  soft  words  of  Joseph's  quiet  son. 

No  voice  had  reached  the  Galilean  vale 

( )f  star-led  kings,  or  awe-struck  shepherd's 
tale ; 

In  the  meek,  studious  child  they  only  saw 

The  future  Rabbi,  learned  in  Israel's  law. 
So  grew  the  boy,  and  now  the  feast  was 
near 

When  at  the  Holy  Place  the  tribes  appear. 

Scarce  had  the  home-bred  child  of  Naza 
reth  seen 

Beyond  the  hills  that  girt  the  village  green; 

Save   when    at    midnight,   o'er    the    starlit 
sands, 

Snatched  from  the  steel  of  Herod's  mur 
dering  bands, 


READINGS  OVER  THE  TEACUPS 


A  babe,  close  folded  to  his  mother's  breast, 
Through  Edom's  wilds  he  sought  the  shel 
tering  West. 
Then   Joseph    spake :    "  Thy   boy    hath 

largely  grown; 
Weave   him    fine    raiment,   fitting   to  be 

shown; 

Fair  robes  beseem  the  pilgrim,  as  the  priest; 
Goes  he  not  with  us  to  the  holy  feast  ?  " 

And  Mary  culled  the  flaxen  fibres  white; 
Till  eve  she  spun;  she  spun  till  morning 

light. 
The  thread  was  twined;  its  parting  meshes 

through 
From   hand  to  hand  her  restless   shuttle 

flew, 
Till  the   full   web  was   wound   upon  the 

beam; 
Love's    curious    toil,  —  a   vest   without   a 

seam  ! 

They  reach  the  Holy  Place,  fulfil  the  days 
To  solemn   feasting    given,   and   grateful 

praise. 

At  last  they  turn,  and  far  Moriah's  height 
Melts  in  the  southern  sky  and  fades  from 

sight. 

All  day  the  dusky  caravan  has  flowed 
In  devious  trails  along  the  winding  road; 
(For  many  a   step  their  homeward  path 

attends, 
And    all    the    sous  of    Abraham   are    as 

friends.) 
Evening  has  come,  —  the  hour  of  rest  and 

joy,  — 
Hush  !   Hush  !     That  whisper,  —  «  Where 

is  Mary's  boy  ?  " 
Oh,  weary  hour  !     Oh,  aching  days  that 

passed 
Filled  with  strange  fears  each  wilder  than 

the  last,  — 
The  soldier's  lance,  the  fierce  centurion's 

sword, 

The  crushing  wheels  that  whirl  some  Ro 
man  lord, 
The  midnight  crypt  that  sucks  the  captive's 

breath, 
The   blistering  sun  on   Hinnom's  vale   of 

death  ! 
Thrice    on    his    cheek   had   rained   the 

morning  light; 
Thrice  on  his  lips   the   mildewed   kiss  of 

night, 
Crouched  by  a  sheltering  column's  shining 

plinth, 
Or  stretched  beneath  the  odorous  terebinth. 


At  last,  in  desperate  mood,  they  sought 

once  more 
The  Temple's   porches,  searched   in   vain 

before  ; 
They  found  him  seated  with  the  ancient 

men,  — 
The  grim  old  rufflers  of  the  tongue   and 


pen, 
bald 


Their  bald  heads  glistening  as  they  clus 

tered  near, 
Their  gray  beards  slanting  as  they  turned 

to  hear, 

Lost  in  half-envious  wonder  and  surprise 
That  lips  so  fresh  should  utter  words  so 

wise. 
And  Mary  said,  —  as  one  who,  tried  too 

long, 
Tells  all  her  grief  and  half  her  sense  of 

wrong,  — 
"  What   is   this    thoughtless    thing   which 

thou  hast  done  ? 
Lo,  we  have  sought  thee  sorrowing,  O  my 

son  !  " 
Few  words  he  spake,  and  scarce  of  filial 

tone, 
Strange  words,  their  sense  a  mystery  yet 

unknown  ; 
Then  turned  with  them  and  left  the  holy 

hill, 
To  all  their  mild  commands  obedient  still. 

The  tale  was  told  to  Nazareth's  sober  men, 
And  Nazareth's  matrons  told  it  oft  again; 
The  maids  retold  it  at  the  fountain's  side, 
The   youthful   shepherds   doubted   or   de 

nied; 
It    passed    around    among    the    listening 

friends, 

With  all  that  fancy  adds  and  fiction  lends, 
Till  newer  marvels  dimmed  the  young  re 

nown 
Of  Joseph's   son,  who  talked  the   Rabbis 

down. 

But  Mary,  faithful  to  its  lightest  word, 
Kept   in   her   heart   the   sayings   she  had 

heard, 
Till  the  dread  morning  rent  the  Temple's 

veil, 
And  shuddering  earth  confirmed  the  won 

drous  tale. 

Youth   fades;  love   droops;  the   leaves   of 

friendship  fall: 
A  mother's  secret  hope  outlives  them  all. 


THE   SECRET   OF   THE    STARS 


Hushed  was  the  voice,  but  still  its  accents 
thrilled 

The  throbbing  hearts  its  lingering  sweet 
ness  filled. 

The  simple  story  which  a  tear  repays 

Asks  not  to  share  the  noisy  breath  of 
praise. 

A  trance-like  stillness,  —  scarce  a  whisper 
heard, 

No  tinkling  teaspoon  in  its  saucer  stirred; 

A  deep-drawn  sigh  that  would  not  be  sup 
pressed, 

A  sob,  a  lifted  kerchief  told  the  rest. 

"  Come  now,  Dictator,"  so  the  lady  spoke, 
"  You    too    must  fit  your  shoulder  to  the 

yoke; 
You  '11  find   there 's  something,  doubtless, 

if  you  look, 
To  serve  your  purpose,  —  so,  now  take  the 

book." 
"  Ah,  my  dear  lady,  you  must  know  full 

well, 

'  Story,  God  bless  you,  I  have  none  to  tell.' 
To  those  five  stories  which  these  pages  hold 
You  all  have  listened,  — every  one  is  told. 
There  's  nothing  left  to  make  you  smile  or 

weep,  — 
A  few  grave  thoughts  may  work  you  oil  to 

sleep." 


THE    SECRET    OF    THE    STARS 

Is  man's  the  only  throbbing  heart  that 

hides 
The  silent  spring  that  feeds  its  whispcrino- 

tides  ? 
Speak  from  thy  caverns,  mystery-breeding 

Earth, 

Tell  the  half-hinted  story  of  thy  birth, 
And  calm  the  noisy   champions  who   have 

thrown 
The  book   of   types   against   the   book  of 

stone  ! 

Have  ye  not  secrets,  ye  refulgent  spheres, 
No  sleepless  listener  of  the  starlight  hears  ? 
In  vain  the  sweeping  equatorial  pries 
Through  every    world-sown  corner  of  the 

skies, 

To  the  far  orb  that  so  remotely  strays 
Our    midnight    darkness    is    its    noonday 

blaze ; 
In  vain  the  climbing  soul  of  creeping  man 


Metes    out   the    heavenly  concave    with   a 

span, 
Tracks    into  space   the   long-lost   meteor's 

trail, 

And  weighs  an  unseen  planet  in  the  scale  ; 
Still  o'er  their  doubts  the  wan-eyed  watch 
ers  sigh, 

And  Science  lifts  her  still  unanswered  cry : 
"  Are    all    these  worlds,  that  speed   their 

circling  flight, 
Dumb,  vacant,  soulless,  —  baubles    of  the 

night  ? 
Warmed  with  God's  smile  and  wafted  by 

his  breath, 
To  weave  in  ceaseless  round  the  dance  of 

Death  ? 

Or  rolls  a  sphere  in  each  expanding  zone, 
Crowned  with  a  life  as  varied  as  our  own  ?  " 

Maker  of  earth  and  stars  !     If  thou  hast 

taught 
By   what  thy  voice  hath   spoke,  thy  hand 

hath  wrought, 

By  all  that  Science  proves,  or  guesses  true, 
More  than  thy  poet  dreamed,  thy  prophet 

knew,  — 
The  heavens  still  bow  in  darkness  at  thy 

feet, 
And  shadows  veil  thy  cloud-pavilioned  seat ! 

Not  for  ourselves  we  ask  thee  to  reveal 
One    awful    word    beneath    the    future's 

seal; 
What  thou  shalt  tell  us,  grant  us  strength 

to  bear; 

What  thou  withholdest  is  thy  single  care. 
Not  for  ourselves;  the  present  clings  too 

fast, 

Moored  to  the  mighty  anchors  of  the  past; 
But    when,  with   angry  snap,  some    cable 

parts, 
The    sound    re-echoing     in    our     startled 

hearts, 
When,  through  the    wall   that    clasps    the 

harbor  round, 

And  shuts  the  raving  ocean  from  its  bound, 
Shattered  and  rent  by  sacrilegious  hands, 
The  first  mad  billow  leaps  upon  the  sands,  — 
Then  to  the  Future's  awful  page  we  turn, 
And  what  we  question  hardly  dare  to  learn. 
Still  let  us  hope  !  for  while  we  seem  to 

tread 

The  time-worn  pathway  of  the  nations  dead, 
Though  Sparta  laughs  at  all  our   warlike 

deeds, 
And  buried  Athens  claims  our  stolen  creeds, 


320 


READINGS  OVER  THE  TEACUPS 


Though    Rome,  a   spectre  on  her   broken 

throne, 

Beholds  our  eagle  and  recalls  her  own, 
Though  England  fling  her  pennons  on  the 

breeze 

And  reign  before  us  Mistress  of  the  seas,  — 
While  calm-eyed  History  tracks  us  circling 

round 
Fate's   iron    pillar   where    they   all    were 

bound, 

Still  in  our  path  a  larger  curve  she  finds, 
The  spiral  widening  as  the  chain  unwinds  ! 
Still    sees    new    beacons     crowned     with 

brighter  flame 
Thau  the  old  watch-fires,  like,  but  not  the 

same  ! 

No  shameless  haste  shall  spot  with  bandit- 
crime 
Our  destined   empire   snatched  before  its 

time. 
Wait,  —  wait,   undoubting,  for   the   winds 

have  caught 
From  our    bold  speech  the    heritage    of 

thought; 
No  marble  form  that  sculptured  truth  can 

wear 
Vies  with   the  image   shaped   in  viewless 

air; 
And   thought    unfettered   grows    through 

speech  to  deeds, 

As  the  broad  forest  marches  in  its  seeds. 
What  though  we  perish  ere  the  day  is  won  ? 
Enough  to  see  its  glorious  work  begun  ! 
The  thistle  falls  before  a  trampling  clown, 
But  who  can  chain  the  flying  thistle-down  ? 
Wait  while  the  fiery  seeds  of  freedom  fly, 
The  prairie  blazes  when  the  grass  is  dry  ! 
What  arms  might  ravish,  leave  to  peace 
ful  arts, 
Wisdom  and  love  shall  win  the  roughest 

hearts; 

So  shall  the  angel  who  has  closed  for  man 
The  blissful  garden  since  his  woes  began 


Swing  wide  the  golden  portals  of  the  West, 
And   Eden's  secret  stand   at   length   con 
fessed  ! 


The  reader  paused;  in  truth  he  thought  it 

time,  — 
Some  threatening  signs  accused  the  drowsy 

rhyme. 

The  Mistress  nodded,  the  Professor  dozed, 
The  two  Annexes  sat  with  eyelids  closed,  — 
Not  sleeping,  —  no  !  But  when  one  shuts 

one's  eyes, 

That  one  hears  better  no  one,  sure,  denies. 
The  Doctor  whispered  in  Delilah's  ear, 
Or  seemed  to  whisper,  for  their  heads  drew 

near. 

Not  all  the  owner's  efforts  could  restrain 
The  wild  vagaries  of  the  squinting  brain,  — 
Last  of  the  listeners  Number  Five  alone 
The  patient  reader  still  could  call  his  own. 

"  Teacups,  arouse  !  "   'T  was  thus  the  spell 

I  broke; 
The   drowsy  started   and   the   slumberers 

woke. 

"  The  sleep  I  promised  you  have  now  en 
joyed, 

Due  to  your  hour  of  labor  well  employed. 
Swiftly   the    busy     moments    have     been 

passed; 
This,  our  first  '  Teacups,'  must  not  be  our 

last. 

Here,  on  this  spot,  now  consecrated  ground, 
The  Order  of  '  The  Teacups '  let  us  found  ! 
By  winter's  fireside  and  in  summer's  bower 
Still  shall  it  claim  its  ever-welcome  hour, 
In  distant  regions  where  our  feet  may  roam 
The  magic  teapot  find  or  make  a  home; 
Long  may  its  floods  their  bright    infusion 

pour, 
Till    time   and  teacups   both   shall   be   no 

more  ! " 


APPENDIX 


I.    VERSES    FROM   THE   OLDEST 
PORTFOLIO 

FROM    THE    "  COLLEGIAN,"     1830,    ILLUS 
TRATED   ANNUALS,    ETC. 

Nescit  vox  missa  reverti.  —  HOKAT.  Ars  Poetica. 
Ab  iis   qu;c    non    adjuvant  quam  mollissime   oportet 
pedem  rcferrc.  — QUINTILIAX,  L.  VI.  C.  4. 

THESE  verses  have  always  been  printed  in  : 
my  collected  poems,  and  as  the  best  of  them  j 
may  bear  a  single  reading-,  I  allow  them  to  ' 
appear,  bnt  in  a  less  conspicuous  position  than 
the  other  productions.  A  chick,  before  his 
shell  is  off  his  back,  is  hardly  a  fair  subject 
for  severe  criticism.  If  one  has  written  any 
thing'  worth  preserving1,  his  first  efforts  may  be 
objects  of  interest  and  curiosity.  Other  young- 
authors  may  take  encouragement  from  seeing1 
how  tame,  how  feeble,  how  commonplace  were 
the  rudimentary  attempts  of  the  half-fledged 
poet.  If  the  boy  or  youth  had  anything-  in 
him,  there  will  probably  be  some  sign  of  it  in 
the  midst  of  his  imitative  mediocrities  and  am 
bitious  failures. 

These  "  first  verses  "  of  mine,  written  before 
I  was  sixteen,  have  little  beyond  a  common 
academy  boy's  ordinary  performance.  Yet  a 
kindly  critic  said  there  was  one  line  which 
showed  a  poetical  quality  :  — 

"  The  boiling  ocean  trembled  into  calm." 
One  of  these  poems  —  the   reader  may  griess 
which  —  won  fair  words  from  Thackeray.    The 
Spectre  Pig   was  a  wicked   suggestion   which 
came  into  my  head  after  reading  Dana's  !>«<•- 
cancer.     Nobody  seemed  to  find  it  out,  and  I    > 
never  mentioned  it  to  the  venerable  poet,  who 
might  not  have  been  pleased  with  the  parody. 

This  is  enough  to  say  of  these  unvalued 
copies  of  verses. 


FIRST    VERSES 

PHILLIPS     ACADEMY,    ANTJOVER,    MASS..    1824     OR     ' 
1825 

Translation  from  The  j&iieid.  Book  I . 

THE  god  looked  out  upon  the  troubled  deep 
Waked  into  tumult  from  its  placid  sleep  ; 
The  flame  of  anger  kindles  in  his  eye 

321 


As  the  wild  waves  ascend  the  lowering  sky  ; 
He  lifts  his  head  above  their  awful  height 
And  to  the  distant  fleet  directs  his  sight, 
Now  borne  aloft  upon  the  billow's  crest, 
Struck  by  the  bolt  or  by  the  winds  oppressed, 
And  well  he  knew  that  Juno's  vengeful  ire 
Frowned  from  those  clouds  and  sparkled  in  that 

fire. 

On  rapid  pinions  as  they  whistled  by 
He  calls  swift  Zephyrus  and  Eurus  nigh  : 
Is  this  your  glory  in  a  noble  line 
To  leave  your  confines  and  to  ravage  mine ':' 
Whom  _  I  —  but  let  these  troubled  waves  sub 
side  — 

Another  tempest  and  I  '11  quell  your  pride  ! 
(TO  —  bear  our  message  to  your  master's  ear, 
That  wide  as  ocean  I  am  despot  here  ; 
Let  him  sit  monarch  in  his  barren  caves, 
I  wield  the  trident  and  control  the  waves  ! 

He  said,  and  as  the  gathered  vapors  break 
The  swelling  ocean  seemed  a  peaceful  lake  ; 
To  lift  their  ships  the  graceful  nymphs  essayed 
And  the  strong  trident  lent  its  powerful  aid  ; 
The   dangerous   banks   are   sunk    beneath   the 

main, 

And  the  light  chariot  skims  the  unruffled  plain. 
As  when  sedition  fires  the  public  mind, 
And  maddening  fury  leads  the  rabble  blind, 
The  blazing  torch  lights  up  the  dread  alarm, 
Rage  points  the  steel  and  fury  nerves  the  arm, 
Then,  if  some  reverend  sage  appear  in  sight, 
They  stand— they  gaze,  and  check  their  head 
long  flight,  — 

He  turns  the  current  of  each  wandering  breast 
And  hushes  every  passion  into  rest,  — 
Thus  by  the  power  of  his  imperial  arm 
The  boiling  ocean  trembled  into  calm  ; 
With  flowing  reins  the  father  sped  his  way 
And  smiled  serene  upon  rekindled  day. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  DRYADS 

Written  after  a  general  pruning'  of  the  trees 
around  Harvard  College.  A  little  poem,  on  a 
similar  occasion,  may  be  found  in  the  works  of 
Swift,  from  which,  perhaps,  the  idea  was  bor 
rowed ;  although  I  was  as  much  surprised  as 
amused  to  meet  with  it  some  time  after  writing- 
the  following-  lines. 

IT  was  not  many  centuries  since, 

When,  gathered  on  the  moonlit  green. 

Beneath  the  Tree  of  Liberty, 
A  ring  of  weeping  sprites  was  seen. 


322 


APPENDIX 


The  freshman's  lamp  had  long  been  dim, 
The  voice  of  busy  day  was  mute, 

And  tortured  Melody  had  ceased 
Her  sufferings  on  the  evening  flute. 

They  met  not  as  they  once  had  met, 
To  laugh  o'er  many  a  jocund  tale  : 

But  every  pulse  was  beating  low, 
And  every  cheek  was  cold  and  pale. 

There  rose  a  fair  but  faded  one, 

Who  oft  had  cheered  them  with  her  song ; 
She  waved  a  mutilated  arm, 

And  silence  held  the  listening  throng. 

"  Sweet  friends,"  the  gentle  nymph  began, 
"  From  opening  bud  to  withering  leaf, 
One  common  lot  has  bound  us  all, 
In  every  change  of  joy  and  grief. 

"  While  all  around  has  felt  decay, 
We  rose  in  ever-living  prime, 
With  broader  shade  and  fresher  green, 
Beneath  the  crumbling  step  of  Time. 

' '  When  often  by  our  feet  has  past 

Some  biped,  Nature's  walking  whim, 
Say,  have  we  trimmed  one  awkward  shape, 
Or  lopped  away  one  crooked  limb  ? 

"  Go  on,  fair  Science  ;  soon  to  thee 

Shall  Nature  yield  her  idle  boast ; 
Her  vulgar  fingers  formed  a  tree, 
But  thou  hast  trained  it  to  a  post. 

''  Go,  paint  the  birch's  silver  rind, 

And  quilt  the  peach  with  softer  down  ; 
Up  with  the  willow's  trailing  threads, 
Off  with  the  sunflower's  radiant  crown  ! 

"  Go,  plant  the  lily  on  the  shore, 

And  set  the  rose  among  the  waves, 
And  bid  the  tropic  bud  unbind 
Its  silken  zone  in  arctic  caves ; 

"  Bring  bellows  for  the  panting  winds, 

Hang  up  a  lantern  by  the  moon, 
And  give  the  nightingale  a  fife, 
And  lend  the  eagle  a  balloon  ! 

"  I  cannot  smile,  —  the  tide  of  scorn, 

That  rolled  through  every  bleeding  vein, 
Comes  kindling  fiercer  as  it  flows 
Back  to  its  burning  source  again. 

' '  Again  in  every  quivering  leaf 

That  moment  s  agony  I  feel, 
When  limbs,  that  spurned  the  northern  blast, 
Shrunk  from  the  sacrilegious  steel. 

"  A  curse  upon  the  wretch  who  dared 

To  crop  us  with  his  felon  saw  ! 
May  every  fruit  his  lip  shall  taste 
Lie  like  a  bullet  in  his  maw. 

"In  every  julep  that  he  drinks, 

May  gout,  and  bile,  and  headache  be; 


And  when  he  strives  to  calm  his  pain, 
May  colic  mingle  with  his  tea. 

May  nightshade  cluster  round  his  path, 
And  thistles  shoot,  and  brambles  cling  ; 

May  blistering  ivy  scorch  his  veins, 
And  dogwood  burn,  and  nettles  sting. 

On  him  may  never  shadow  fall, 

When  fever  racks  his  throbbing  brow, 

And  his  last  shilling  buy  a  rope 
To  hang  him  on  my  highest  bough  !  " 

She  spoke  ;  —  the  morning's  herald  beam 
Sprang  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

And  every  mangled  sprite  returned 
In  sadness  to  her  wounded  tree. 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  VISITOR 

THERE  was  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet, 

A  tramp  on  echoing  stairs, 
There  was  a  rush  along  the  aisles,  — 

It  was  the  hour  of  prayers. 

And  on,  like  Ocean's  midnight  wave, 

The  current  rolled  along, 
When,  suddenly,  a  stranger  form 

Was  seen  amidst  the  throng. 

He  was  a  dark  and  swarthy  man, 

That  uninvited  guest ; 
A  faded  coat  of  bottle-green 

Was  buttoned  round  his  breast. 

There  was  not  one  among  them  all 
Could  say  from  whence  he  came  ; 

Nor  beardless  boy,  nor  ancient  man, 
Could  tell  that  stranger's  name. 

All  silent  as  the  sheeted  dead, 

In  spite  of  sneer  and  frown, 
Fast  by  a  gray-haired  senior's  side 

He  sat  him  boldly  down. 

There  was  a  look  of  horror  flashed 

From  out  the  tutor's  eyes  ; 
When  all  around  him  rose  to  pray, 

The  stranger  did  not  rise  ! 

A  murmur  broke  along  the  crowd, 

The  prayer  was  at  an  end  ; 
With  ringing  heels  and  measured  tread, 

A  hundred  forms  descend. 

Through  sounding  aisle,  o'er  grating  stair, 

The  long  procession  poured, 
Till  all  were  gathered  on  the  seats 

Around  the  Commons  board. 

That  fearful  stranger  !  down  he  sat, 

Unasked,  yet  undismayed  ; 
And  on  his  lip  a  rising  smile 

Of  scorn  or  pleasure  played. 

He  took  his  hat  and  hung  it  up, 
With  slow  but  earnest  air  ; 


VERSES    FROM   THE   OLDEST   PORTFOLIO 


323 


He  stripped  his  coat  from  off  bis  back, 
And  placed  it  on  a  chair. 

Then  from  his  nearest  neighbor's  side 

A  knife  and  plate  he  drew  ; 
And,  reaching  out  his  hand  again, 

He  took  his  teacup  too. 

How  fled  the  sugar  from  the  bowl ! 

How  sunk  the  azure  cream  ! 
They  vanished  like  the  shapes  that  float 

Upon  a  summer's  dream. 

A  long,  long  draught,  —  an  outstretched  hand. 

And  crackers,  toast,  and  tea, 
They  faded  from  the  stranger's  touch, 

Like  dew  upon  the  sea. 

Then  clouds  were  dark  on  many  a  brow, 

Fear  sat  upon  their  souls, 
And,  in  a  bitter  agony, 

They  clasped  their  buttered  rolls. 

A  whisper  trembled  through  the  crowd,  — 

Who  could  the  stranger  be  ? 
And  some  were  silent,  for  they  thought 

A  cannibal  was  he. 

What  if  the  creature  should  arise,  — 

For  he  was  stout  and  tall,  — 
And  swallow  down  a  sophomore, 

Coat,  crow's-foot,  cap,  and  all  ! 

All  sullenly  the  stranger  rose  ; 

They  sat  in  mute  despair  ; 
He  took  his  hat  from  off  the  peg, 

His  coat  from  off  the  chair. 

Four  freshmen  fainted  on  the  seat, 

Six  swooned  upon  the  floor  ; 
Yet  on  the  fearful  being  passed, 

And  shut  the  chapel  door. 

There  is  full  many  a  starving  man, 

That  walks  in  bottle  green, 
But  never  more  that  hungry  one 

In  Commons  hall  was  seen. 

Yet  often  at  the  sunset  hour, 

When  tolls  tlie  evening  bell, 
The  freshman  lingers  on  the  steps, 

That  frightful  tale  to  tell. 


THE   TOADSTOOL 

THERE  's  a  thing   that  grows  by  the  fainting 

flower, 

And  springs  in  the  shade  of  the  lady's  bower  ; 
The  lily  shrinks,  and  the  rose  turns  pale, 
When  they  feel  its  breath  in  the  summer  gale, 
And  the  tulip  curls  its  leaves  in  pride, 
And  the  blue-eyed  violet  starts  aside  ; 
But  the  lily  may  flaunt,  and  the  tulip  stare. 
For  what  does  the  honest  toadstool  care  ? 


She  does  not  glow  in  a  painted  vest, 

And  she  never  blooms  on  the  maiden's  breast  ; 

But  she  comes,  as  the  saintly  sisters  do, 

In  a  modest  suit  of  a  Quaker  hue. 

And,  when  the  stars  in  the  evening  skies 

Are  weeping  dew  from  their  gentle  eyes, 

The  toad  comes  out  from  his  hermit  cell, 

The  tale  of  his  faithful  love  to  tell. 

Oh,  there  is  light  in  her  lover's  glance, 
That  flies  to  her  heart  like  a  silver  lance  ; 
His  breeches  are  made  of  spotted  skin, 
His  jacket  is  tight,  and  his  pumps  are  thin  ; 
In  a  cloudless  night  you  may  hear  his  song, 
As  its  pensive  melody  floats  along, 
And,  if  you  will  look  by  the  moonlight  fair, 
The  trembling  form  of  the  toad  is  there. 

And  he  twines  his  arms  round  her  slender  stem, 
In  the  shade  of  her  velvet  diadem  ; 
But  she  turns  away  in  her  maiden  shame, 
And  will  not  breathe  on  the  kindling  flame  ; 
He  sings  at  her  feet  through  the  livelong  night, 
And  creeps  to  his  cave  at  the  break  of  light  ; 
And  whenever  he  comes  to  the  air  above, 
His  throat  is  swelling  witli  baffled  love. 


THE    SPECTRE    PIG 

A    DAL  I.  AD 

IT  was  the  stalwart  butcher  man, 

That  knit  his  swarthy  brow, 
And  said  the  gentle  Pig  must  die, 

And  sealed  it  with  a  vow. 

And  oh  !  it  was  the  gentle  Pig 
Lay  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

And  ah  !  it  was  the  cruel  knife 
His  little  heart  that  found. 

They  took  him  then,  those  wicked  men. 

They  trailed  him  all  along  : 
They  put  a  stick  between  his  lips, 

And  through  his  heels  a  thong  ; 

And  round  and  round  an  oaken  beam 

A  hempen  cord  they  flung. 
And,  like  a  mighty  pendulum, 

All  solemnly  he  swung  ! 

Now  say  thy  prayers,  them  sinful  man, 
And  think  what  thou  hast  done, 

And  read  thy  catechism  well, 
Thou  bloody-minded  one  ; 

For  if  his  sprite  should  walk  by  night, 

It  better  were  for  thee, 
That  thou  wert  mouldering  in  the  ground. 

Or  bleaching  in  the  sea. 

It  was  the  savage  butcher  then, 

That  made  a  mock  of  sin, 
And  swore  a  very  wicked  oath, 

He  did  not  care  a  pin. 


324 


APPENDIX 


It  was  the  butcher's  youngest  son,  — 
His  voice  was  broke  with  sighs, 

And  with  his  pocket-handkerchief 
He  wiped  his  little  eyes ; 

All  young  and  ignorant  was  he, 

But  innocent  and  mild, 
And,  in  his  soft  simplicity. 

Out  spoke  the  tender  child :  — 

"  Oh,  father,  father,  list  to  me  ; 

The  Pig  is  deadly  sick, 
And  men  have  hung  him  by  his  heels, 
And  fed  him  with  a  stick." 

It  was  the  bloody  butcher  then, 

That  laughed  as  he  would  die, 
Yet  did  he  soothe  the  sorrowing  child, 

And  bid  him  not  to  cry  ;  — 

"  Oh,  Nathan,  Nathan,  what 's  a  Pig, 

That  thou  shouldst  weep  and  wail  ? 
Come,  bear  thee  like  a  butcher's  child, 
And  thou  shalt  have  his  tail !  " 

It  was  the  butcher's  daughter  then, 

80  slender  and  so  fair, 
That  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 

And  tore  her  yellow  hair  ; 

And  thus  she  spoke  in  thrilling  tone,  — 

Fast  fell  the  tear-drops  big  :  — 
1  k  Ah  !  woe  is  me  !    Alas  !    Alas  ! 
The  Pig!    The  Pig!    The  Pig!" 

Then  did  her  wicked  father's  lips 

Make  merry  with  her  woe, 
And  call  her  many  a  naughty  name, 

Because  she  whimpered  so. 

Ye  need  not  weep,  ye  gentle  ones, 

In  vain  your  tears  are  shed, 
Ye  cannot  wash  his  crimson  hand, 

Ye  cannot  soothe  the  dead. 

The  bright  sun  folded  on  his  breast 

His  robes  of  rosy  flame, 
And  softly  over  all  the  west 

The  shades  of  evening  came. 

He  slept,  and  troops  of  murdered  Pigs 

Were  busy  with  his  dreams  ; 
Loud  rang  their  wild,  unearthly  shrieks, 

Wide  yawned  their  mortal  seams. 

The  clock  struck  twelve ;    the  Dead  hath 
heard  ; 

He  opened  both  his  eyes, 
And  sullenly  he  shook  his  tail 

To  lash  the  feeding  flies. 

One  quiver  of  the  hempen  cord,  — 

One  struggle  and  one  bound,  — 
With  stiffened  limb  and  leaden  eye, 

The  Pig  was  on  the  ground  ! 


And  straight  towards  the  sleeper's  house 

His  fearful  way  he  wended ; 
And  hooting  owl  and  hovering  bat 

On  midnight  wing  attended. 

Back  flew  the  bolt,  up  rose  the  latch, 

And  open  swung  the  door, 
And  little  mincing  feet  were  heard 

Pat,  pat  along  the  floor. 

Two  hoofs  upon  the  sanded  floor, 

And  two  upon  the  bed; 
And  they  are  breathing  side  by  side, 

The  living  and  the  dead  ! 

Now  wake,  now  wake,  thou  butcher  man  ! 

What  makes  thy  cheek  so  pale  ? 
Take  hold  !  take  hold  !  thou  dost  not  fear 

To  clasp  a  spectre's  tail  ?  " 

Untwisted  every  winding  coil ; 

The  shuddering  wretch  took  hold, 
All  like  an  icicle  it  seemed, 

So  tapering  and  so  cold. 

'  Thou  com'st  with  me,  thou  butcher  man !  "  — 

He  strives  to  loose  his  grasp, 
But,  faster  than  the  clinging  vine, 
Those  twining  spirals  clasp ; 

And  open,  open  swung  the  door, 

And,  fleeter  than  the  wind, 
The  shadowy  spectre  swept  before, 

The  butcher  trailed  behind. 

Fast  fled  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

And  morn  rose  faint  and  dim  ; 
They  called  full  loud,  they  knocked  full  long, 

They  did  not  waken  him. 

Straight,  straight  towards  that  oaken  beam, 

A  trampled  pathway  ran  ; 
A  ghastly  shape  was  swinging  there,  — 

It  was  the  butcher  man. 


TO   A   CAGED   LION 

POOR  conquered  monarch  !  though  that  haughty 

glance 

Still  speaks  thy  courage  unsubdued  by  time, 
And  in  the  grandeur  of  thy  sullen  tread 

Lives  the  proud  spirit  of  thy  burning  clime  ;  — 
Fettered  by  things  that  shudder  at  thy  roar, 
Torn  from  thy  pathless  wilds  to  pace  this  nar 
row  floor  ! 

Thou  wast  the  victor,  and  all  nature  shrunk 
Before  the  thunders  of  thine  awful  wrath  ; 

The  steel-armed  hunter  viewed  thee  from  afar, 
Fearless  and  trackless  in  thy  lonely  path  ! 

The  famished  tiger  closed  his  flaming  eye, 

And  crouched  and  panted  as  thy  step  went 
by! 


VERSES   FROM   THE   OLDEST   PORTFOLIO 


325 


Thou  art  the  vanquished,  and  insulting  man 
Bars  thy  broad  bosom  as  a  sparrow's  wing; 

His  nerveless  arms  thine  iron  sinews  bind, 
And  lead  in  chains  the  desert's  fallen  king  ; 

Are  these  the  beings  that  have  dared  to  twine 

Their  feeble   threads   around   those    limbs    of 
thine  ? 

So  must  it  be  ;  the  weaker,  wiser  race, 

That  wields  the  tempest  and  that  rides  the 

sea, 
Even  in  the  stillness  of  thy  solitude 

Must  teach  the  lesson  of  its  power  to  thee  ; 
And  them,  the  terror  of  the  trembling  wild, 
Must  bow  thy  savage  strength,  the  mockery  of 
a  child  ! 


THE    STAR    AND    THE    WATER-LILY 

THE  sun  stepped  down  from  his  golden  throne, 

And  lay  in  the  silent  sea, 
And  the  Lily  had  folded  her  satin  leaves, 

For  a  sleepy  tiling  was  she  ; 
What  is  the  Lily  dreaming  of  ? 

Why  crisp  the  waters  blue  ? 
See,  see,  she  is  lifting  her  varnished  lid  ! 

Her  white  leaves  are  glistening  through  ! 

The  Rose  is  cooling  his  burning  cheek 

In  the  lap  of  the  breathless  tide  ;  — 
The  Lily  hath  sisters  fresh  and  fair. 

That  would  lie  by  the  Rose's  side  ; 
He  would  love  her  better  than  all  the  rest, 

And  he  would  be  fond  and  true  ;  — 
But  the  Lily  unfolded  her  weary  lids, 

And  looked  at  the  sky  so  blue. 

Remember,  remember,  thou  silly  one, 

How  fast  will  thy  summer  glide, 
And  wilt  thou  wither  a  virgin  pale, 

Or  flourish  a  blooming  bride  ? 
"  Oh,  the  Rose  is  old,  and  thorny,  and  cold, 

And  he  lives  on  earth,''  said  she  ; 
41  But  the  Star  is  fair  and  he  lives  in  the  air, 

And  he  shall  my  bridegroom  be." 

But  what  if  the  stormy  cloud  should  come, 

And  ruffle  the  silver  sea '? 
Would  he  turn  his  eye  from  the  distant  sky, 

To  smile  on  a  tiling  like  thee  ? 
Oil  no,  fair  Lily,  he  will  not  send 

One  ray  from  his  far-off  throne  ; 
The   winds   shall   blow,  and    the   waves    shall 
flow, 

And  thou  wilt  be  left  alone. 

There  is  not  a  leaf  on  the  mountain-top, 

Nor  a  drop  of  evening  dew, 
Nor  a  golden  sand  on  the  sparkling  shore, 

Nor  a  pearl  in  the  waters  blue, 
That  he  has  not  cheered  with  his  fickle  smile, 

And  warmed  with  his  faithless  beam,  — 
And  will  he  be  true  to  a  pallid  flower. 

That  floats  on  the  quiet  stream  ? 


Alas  for  the  Lily  !  she  would  not  heed, 

But  turned  to  the  skies  afar, 
And  bared  her  breast  to  the  trembling  ray 

That  shot  from  the  rising  star  ; 
The  cloud  came  over  the  darkened  sky, 

And  over  the  waters  wide  : 
She  looked  in  vain  through  the  beating  rain, 

And  sank  in  the  stormy  tide. 


ILLUSTRATION  OF    A  PICTURE 

"A    SPANISH    GIRL    IN    REVERIK" 

SHK  twirled  the  string  of  golden  beads, 

That  round  her  neck  was  hung,  — 
My  grandsire's  gift  ;  the  good  old  man 

Loved  girls  when  he  was  young  ; 
And,  bending  lightly  o'er  the  cord, 

And  turning  half  away, 
With  something  like  a  youthful  sigh, 

Thus  spoke  the  maiden  gray  :  — 

Well,  one  may  trail  her  silken  robe, 

And  bind  her  locks  with  pearls, 
And  one  may  wreathe  the  woodland  rose 

Among  her  floating  curls  ; 
And  one  may  tread  the  dewy  grass, 

And  one  the  marble  lloor. 
Nor  half-hid  bnsom  heave  the  less, 

Nor  broidered  corset  more  ! 

Some  years  ago.  a  dark-eyed  girl 

Was  sitting  in  the  shade,  — 
There  "s  something  brings  her  in  my  mind 

In  that  young  dreaming  maid.  — 
And  in  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 

A  flower,  whose  speaking  hue 
Said,  in  the  language  of  the  heart, 

"  Believe  the  giver  true.' 

And.  as  she  looked  upon  its  leaves, 

The  maiden  made  a  vow 
To  wear  it  when  the  bridal  wreath 

Was  woven  for  her  brow  ; 
She  watched  the  flower,  as,  day  by  day, 

The  leaflets  curled  and  died  ; 
But  he  -syho  gave  it  never  came 

To  claim  her  for  his  bride. 

Oh.  many  a  summer's  morning  glow 

Has  lent  the  rose  its  ray, 
And  many  a  winter's  drifting  snow 

Has  swept  its  bloom  away  ; 
But  she  has  kept  that  faithless  pledge 

To  this,  her  winter  hour. 
And  keeps  it  still,  herself  alone, 

And  wasted  like  the  flower." 

Her  pale  lip  quivered,  and  the  light 

Gleamed  in  her  moistening  eyes  ;  — 
I  asked  her  how  she  liked  the  tints 

In  those  Castilian  skies  ? 
She  thought  them  misty,  —  't  was  perhaps 

Because  she  stood  too  near  ;  " 
She  turned  away,  and  as  she  turned 

I  saw  her  wipe  a  tear. 


326 


APPENDIX 


A  ROMAN  AQUEDUCT 

THE  sun-browned  girl,  whose  limbs  recline 
When  noon  her  languid  hand  has  laid 

Hot  on  the  green  flakes  of  the  pine, 
Beneath  its  narrow  disk  of  shade  ; 

As,  through  the  flickering  noontide  glare, 
She  gazes  on  the  rainbow  chain 

Of  arches,  lifting  once  in  air 
The  rivers  of  the  Roman's  plain  ;  — 

Say,  does  her  wandering  eye  recall 
The  mountain-current's  icy  wave,  — 

Or  for  the  dead  one  tear  let  fall, 
Whose  founts  are  broken  by  their  grave  ? 

From  stone  to  stone  the  ivy  weaves 
Her  braided  tracery's  winding  veil, 

And  lacing  stalks  and  tangled  leaves 
Nod  heavy  in  the  drowsy  gale. 

And  lightly  floats  the  pendent  vine, 
That  swings  beneath  her  slender  bow, 

Arch  answering  arch,  —  whose  rounded  line 
Seems  mirrored  in  the  wreath  below. 

How  patient  Nature  smiles  at  Fame  ! 

The  weeds,  that  strewed  the  victor's  way, 
Feed  on  his  dust  to  shroud  his  name, 

Green  where  his  proudest  towers  decay. 

See,  through  that  channel,  empty  now, 
The  scanty  rain  its  tribute  pours,  — 

Which  cooled  the  lip  and  laved  the  brow 
Of  conquerors  from  a  hundred  shores. 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  nation's  bier, 
Whose  wants  the  captive  earth  supplied, 

The  dew  of  Memory's  passing  tear 
Falls  on  the  arches  of  her  pride  ! 


FROM   A   BACHELOR'S   PRIVATE  JOUR 
NAL 

SWEET  Mary,  I  have  never  breathed 
The  love  it  were  in  vain  to  name  ; 

Though  round  my  heart  a  serpent  wreathed, 
I  smiled,  or  strove  to  smile,  the  same. 

Once  more  the  pulse  of  Nature  glows 
With  faster  throb  and  fresher  fire, 

While  music  round  her  pathway  flows, 
Like  echoes  from  a  hidden  lyre. 

And  is  there  none  with  me  to  share 
The  glories  of  the  earth  and  sky  ? 

The  eagle  through  the  pathless  air 
Is  followed  by  one  burning  eye. 

Ah  no  !  the  cradled  flowers  may  wake, 
Again  may  flow  the  frozen  sea, 


From  every  cloud  a  star  may  break,  — 
There  comes  no  second  spring  to  me. 

Go,  —  ere  the  painted  toys  of  youth 
Are  crushed  beneath  the  tread  of  years  ; 

Ere  visions  have  been  chilled  to  truth, 
And  hopes  are  washed  away  in  tears. 

Go, —  for  I  will  not  bid  thee  weep,  — 
Too  soon  my  sorrows  will  be  thine, 

And  evening's  troubled  air  shall  sweep 
The  incense  from  the  broken  shrine. 

If  Heaven  can  hear  the  dying  tone 

Of  chords  that  soon  will  cease  to  thrill, 

The  prayer  that  Heaven  has  heard  alone 
May  bless  thee  when  those  chords  are  still. 


LA  GRISETTE 

AH,  Clemence  !  when  I  saw  thee  last 

Trip  down  the  Rue  de  Seine, 
And  turning,  when  thy  form  had  past, 

I  said,  "  We  meet  again,"  - 
I  dreamed  not  in  that  idle  glance 

Thy  latest  image  came, 
And  only  left  to  memory's  trance 

A  shadow  and  a  name. 

The  few  strange  words  my  lips  had  taught 

Thy  timid  voice  to  speak, 
Their  gentler  signs,  which  often  brought 

Fresh  roses  to  thy  cheek, 
The  trailing  of  thy  long  loose  hair 

Bent  o'er  my  couch  of  pain, 
All,  all  returned,  more  sweet,  more  fair  ; 

Oh,  had  we  met  again ! 

I  walked  where  saint  and  virgin  keep 

The  vigil  lights  of  Heaven, 
I  knew  that  thou  hadst  woes  to  weep, 

And  sins  to  be  forgiven  ; 
I  watched  where  Genevieve  was  laid, 

I  knelt  by  Mary's  shrine, 
Beside  me  low,  soft  voices  prayed  ; 

Alas  !  but  where  was  thine  ? 

And  when  the  morning  sun  was  bright, 

When  wind  and  wave  were  calm, 
And  flamed,  in  thousand-tinted  light, 

The  rose  of  Notre  Dame, 
I  wandered  through  the  haunts  of  men, 

From  Boulevard  to  Quai, 
Till,  frowning  o'er  Saint  Etienne, 

The  Pantheon's  shadow  lay. 

In  vain,  in  vain  ;  we  meet  no  more, 

Nor  dream  what  fates  befall ; 
And  long  upon  the  stranger's  shore 

My  voice  on  thee  may  call, 
When  years  have  clothed  the  line  in  moss 

That  tells  thy  name  and  days, 
And  withered,  on  thy  simple  cross, 

The  wreaths  of  Pere-la-Chaise  1 


VERSES    FROM   THE   OLDEST    PORTFOLIO 


327 


OUR  YANKEE  GIRLS 

LET  greener  lands  and  bluer  skies, 

If  such  the  wide  earth  shows, 
With  fairer  cheeks  and  brighter  eyes, 

Match  us  the  star  and  rose  ; 
The  winds  that  lift  the  Georgian's  veil. 

Or  wave  Circassia's  curls, 
Waft  to  their  shores  the  sultan's  sail,  — 

Who  buys  our  Yankee  girls  ? 

The  gay  grisette,  whose  fingers  touch 

Love's  thousand  chords  so  well; 
The  dark  Italian,  loving  much, 

But  more  than  one  can  tell; 
And  England's  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  dame, 

Who  binds  her  brow  with  pearls  ;  — 
Ye  who  have  seen  them,  can  they  shame 

Our  own  sweet  Yankee  girls? 

And  what  if  court  or  castle  vaunt 

Its  children  loftier  born  ?  — 
Who  heeds  the  silken  tassel's  flaunt 

Beside  the  golden  corn  ? 
They  ask  not  for  the  dainty  toil 

Of  ribboned  knights  and  earls, 
The  daughters  of  the  virgin  soil, 

Our  freeboru  Yankee  girls  ! 

By  every  hill  whose  stately  pines 

Wave  their  dark  arms  above 
The  home  where  some  fair  being  shines. 

To  warm  the  wilds  with  love, 
From  barest  rock  to  bleakest  shore 

Where  farthest  sail  unfurls. 
That  stars  and  stripes  are  streaming  o'er,  — 

God  bless  our  Yankee  girls  ! 

L'INCONNUE 

Is  thy  name  Mary,  maiden  fair  ? 

!Such  should,  methiuks,  its  music  be ; 
The  sweetest  name  that  mortals  bear 

Were  best  befitting  thee  ; 
And  she  to  whom  it  once  was  given, 
Was  half  of  earth  and  half  of  heaven. 

I  hear  thy  voice,  I  see  thy  smile, 

I  look  upon  thy  folded  hair  ; 
Ah  !  while  we  dream  not  they  beguile, 

Our  hearts  are  in  the  snare  ; 
And  she  who  chains  a  wild  bird's  wing 
Must  start  not  if  her  captive  sing. 

So,  lady,  take  the  leaf  that  falls, 
^To  all  but  thee  unseen,  unknown  : 

When  evening  shades  thy  silent  walls, 
Then  read  it  all  alone  ; 

In  stillness  read,  in  darkness  seal, 

Forget,  despise,  but  not  reveal ! 

STANZAS 

STRANGE  !  that  one  lightly  whispered  tone 

Is  far.  far  sweeter  unto  me, 
Than  all  the  sounds  that  kiss  the  earth, 

Or  breathe  along  the  sea  ; 


But,  lady,  when  thy  voice  I  greet, 
Not  heavenly  music  seems  so  sweet. 

I  look  upon  the  fair  blue  skies, 
And  naught  but  empty  air  I  see  ; 

But  when  I  turn  me  to  thine  eyes, 
It  seemeth  unto  me 

Ten  thousand  angels  spread  their  wings 

Within  those  little  azure  rings. 

The  lily  hath  the  softest  leaf 

That  ever  western  breeze  hath  fanned, 
But  thou  slialt  have  the  tender  flower, 

ISo  I  may  take  thy  hand  ; 
That  little  hand  to  me  doth  yield 
More  joy  than  all  the  broidered  field. 

0  lady  !  there  be  many  things 

That  seem  right  fair,  below,  above  ; 

But  sure  not  one  among  them  all 
Is  half  so  sweet  as  love  ;  — 

Let  us  not  pay  our  vows  alone, 

But  join  two  altars  both  in  one. 


LINES    BY    A    CLERK 

OH  !  I  did  love  her  dearly, 

And  gave  her  toys  and  rings, 
And  I  thought  she  meant  sincerely, 

When  she  took  my  pretty  things. 
But  her  heart  has  grown  as  icy 

As  a  fountain  in  the  fall, 
And  her  love,  that  was  so  spicy, 

It  did  not  last  at  all. 

I  gave  her  once  a  locket, 

It  was  filled  with  my  own  hair, 
And  she  put  it  in  her  pocket 

With  very  special  care. 
But  a  jeweller  has  got  it,  — 

He  offered  it  to  me,  — 
And  another  that  is  not  it 

Around  her  neck  I  see. 

For  my  cooings  and  my  billings 

I  do  not  now  complain, 
But  my  dollars  and  my  shillings 

Will  never  come  again  ; 
They  were  earned  with  toil  and  sorrow, 

But  I  never  told  her  that, 
And  now  I  have  to  borrow, 

And  want  another  hat. 

Think,  think,  thou  cruel  Emma, 

When  thou  shalt  hear  my  woe, 
And  know  my  sad  dilemma, 

That  thou  hast  made  it  so. 
See,  see  my  beaver  rusty, 

Look   look  upon  this  hole, 
This  coat  is  dim  and  dusty; 

Oh  let  it  rend  thy  soul ! 

Before  the  gates  of  fashion 

I  daily  bent  my  knee, 
But  I  sought  the  shrine  of  passion, 

And  found  my  idol,  — thee. 


APPENDIX 


Though  never  love  intenser 

Had  bowed  a  soiil  before  it, 
Thine  eye  was  on  the  censer, 
And  not  the  hand  that  bore  it. 


THE   PHILOSOPHER   TO   HIS   LOVE 

DEAREST,  a  look  is  but  a  ray 
Reflected  in  a  certain  way  ; 
A  word,  whatever  tone  it  wear, 
Is  but  a  trembling  wave  of  air  ; 
A  touch,  obedience  to  a  clause 
In  nature's  pure  material  laws. 

The  very  flowers  that  bend  and  meet, 

In  sweetening  others,  grow  more  sweet ; 

The  clouds  by  day,  the  stars  by  night, 

Inweave  their  floating  locks  of  light ; 

The  rainbow,  Heaven's  own  forehead's  braid, 

Is  but  the  embrace  of  sun  and  shade. 

How  few  that  love  us  have  we  found  ! 
How  wide  the  world  that  girds  them  round  ! 
Like  mountain  streams  we  meet  and  part, 
Each  living  in  the  other's  heart, 
Our  course  unknown,  our  hope  to  be 
Yet  mingled  in  the  distant  sea. 

But  Ocean  coils  and  heaves  in  vain, 
Bound  in  the  subtle  moonbeam's  chain  ; 
And  love  and  hope  do  but  obey 
Some  cold,  capricious  planet's  ray, 
Which  lights  and  leads  the  tide  it  charms 
To  Death's  dark  caves  and  icy  arms. 

Alas  !  one  narrow  line  is  drawn, 
That  links  our  sunset  with  our  dawn  ; 
In  mist  and  shade  life's  morning  rose, 
And  clouds  are  round  it  at  its  close  ; 
But  all !  no  twilight  beam  ascends 
To  whisper  where  that  evening  ends. 

Oh  !  in  the  hour  when  I  shall  feel 
Those  shadows  round  my  senses  steal, 
When  gentle  eyes  are  weeping  o'er 
The  clay  that  feels  their  tears  no  more, 
Then  let  thy  spirit  with  me  be, 
Or  some  sweet  angel,  likest  thee  ! 

THE   POET'S   LOT 

WHAT  is  a  poet's  love  ?  — 

To  write  a  girl  a  sonnet, 
To  get  a  ring,  or  some  such  thing, 

And  fustianize  upon  it. 

What  is  a  poet's  fame  ?  — 
Sad  hints  about  his  reason, 

And  sadder  praise  from  garreteers, 
To  be  returned  in  season. 

Where  go  the  poet's  lines  ?  — 
Answer,  ye  evening  tapers  ! 

Ye  auburn  locks,  ye  golden  curls, 
Speak  from  your  folded  papers  ! 


Child  of  the  ploughshare,  smile  ; 

Boy  of  the  counter,  grieve  not, 
Though  muses  round  thy  trundle-bed 

Their  broidered  tissue  weave  not. 

The  poet's  future  holds 

No  civic  wreath  above  him  ; 
Nor  slated  roof,  nor  varnished  chaise, 

Nor  wife  nor  child  to  love  him. 

Maid  of  the  village  inn, 

Who  workest  woe  on  satin, 
(The  grass  in  black,  the  graves  in  green, 

The  epitaph  in  Latin,) 

Trust  not  to  them  who  say, 

In  stanzas,  they  adore  thee  ; 
Oh  rather  sleep  in  churchyard  clay, 

With  urn  and  cherub  o'er  thee  ! 


TO  A  BLANK  SHEET  OF  PAPER 

WAN-VISAGED  thing  !  thy  virgin  leaf 
To  me  looks  more  than  deadly  pale, 

Unknowing  what  may  stain  thee  yet,  — 
A  poem  or  a  tale. 

Who  can  thy  unborn  meaning  scan  ? 

Can  Seer  or  Sibyl  read  thee  now  ? 
No,  —  seek  to  trace  the  fate  of  man 

Writ  on  his  infant  brow. 

Love  may  light  on  thy  snowy  cheek, 
And  shake  his  Eden-breathing  plumes  ; 

Then  shalt  thou  tell  how  Lelia  smiles, 
Or  Angelina  blooms. 

Satire  may  lift  his  bearded  lance, 
Forestalling  Time's  slow-moving  scythe, 

And,  scattered  on  thy  little  field, 
Disjointed  bards  may  writhe. 

Perchance  a  vision  of  the  night, 
Some  grizzled  spectre,  gaunt  and  thin, 

Or  sheeted  corpse,  may  stalk  along, 
Or  skeleton  may  grin  ! 

If  it  should  be  in  pensive  hour 
Some  sorrow-moving  theme  I  try, 

Ah,  maiden,  how  thy  tears  will  fall, 
For  all  I  doom  to  die  ! 

But  if  in  merry  mood  I  touch 

Thy  leaves,  then  shall  the  sight  of  thee 
Sow  smiles  as  thick  on  rosy  lips 

As  ripples  on  the  sea. 

The  Weekly  press  shall  gladly  stoop 
To  bind  thee  up  among  iis  sheaves  ; 

The  Daily  steal  thy  shining  ore, 
To  gild  its  leaden  leaves. 

Thou  hast  no  tongue,  yet  thou  canst  speak, 
Till  distant  shores  shall  hear  the  sound  ; 


VERSES    FROM   THE   OLDEST    PORTFOLIO 


329 


Thou  hast  no  life,  yet  thou  canst  breathe 
Fresh  life  on  all  around. 

Thou  art  the  arena  of  the  wise, 

The  noiseless  battle-ground  of  fame  ; 

The  sky  where  halos  may  be  wreathed 
Around  the  humblest  name. 

Take,  then,  this  treasure  to  thy  trust, 
To  win  some  idle  reader's  smile, 

Then  fade  and  moulder  in  the  dust, 
Or  swell  some  bonfire's  pile. 


TO 


THE  PORTRAIT  OF 
MAX" 


A  GENTLE- 


IX    THE   ATHENAEUM    GALLERY 


[The  companion  poem,  To  the  Portrait  of  "A 
Lady,"  was  retained  by  Dr.  Holmes  in  his 
group,  Earlier  Poems.] 

IT  may  be  so,  —  perhaps  thou  hast 

A  warm  and  loving  heart ; 
I  will  not  blame  thee  for  thy  face, 

Poor  devil  as  thou  art. 

That  thing  thou  fondly  deem'st  a  nose, 

Unsightly  though  it  be,  — 
In  spite  of  all  the  cold  world's  scorn, 

It  may  be  much  to  thee. 

Those  eyes,  —  among  thine  elder  friends 

Perhaps  they  pass  for  blue,  — 
No  matter,  — if  a  man  can  see, 

What  more  have  eyes  to  do  ? 

Thy  mouth,  —  that  fissure  in  thy  face, 

By  something  like  a  chin,  — 
May  be  a  very  useful  place 

To  put  thy  victual  in. 

I  know  thou  hast  a  wife  at  home, 

I  know  thou  hast  a  child, 
By  that  subdued,  domestic  smile 

Upon  thy  features  mild. 

That  wife  sits  fearless  by  thy  side, 

That  cherub  on  thy  knee  ; 
They  do  not  shudder  at  thy  looks, 

They  do  not  shrink  from  thee. 

Above  thy  mantle  is  a  hook,  — 

A  portrait  once  was  there  ; 
It  was  thine  only  ornament,  — 

Alas  !  that  hook  is  bare. 

She  begged  thee  not  to  let  it  go, 

She  begged  thee  all  in  vain  ; 
She  wept,  —  and  breathed  a  trembling  prayer 

To  meet  it  safe  again. 

It  was  a  bitter  sight  to  see 

That  picture  torn  away  ; 
It  was  a  solemn  thought  to  think 

What  all  her  friends  would  say  ! 


And  often  in  her  calmer  hours, 
And  in  her  happy  dreams, 

Upon  its  long-deserted  hook 
The  absent  portrait  seems. 

Thy  wretched  infant  turns  his  head 

In  melancholy  wise, 
And  looks  to  meet  the  placid  stare 

Of  those  unbending  eyes. 

I  never  saw  thee,  lovely  one,  — 

Perchance  I  never  may  ; 
It  is  not  often  that  we  cross 

Such  people  in  our  way  ; 

But  if  \ve  meet  in  distant  years, 
Or  on  some  foreign  shore, 

Sure  I  can  take  my  Bible  oath, 
I've  seen  that  face  before. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN 

IT  was  a  tall   young  oysterman  lived  by  the 

river-side. 
His  shop  was  just  upon  the  bank,  his  boat  was 

on  the  tide  ; 
The   daughter   of    a    fisherman,   that    was    so 

straight  and  slim, 
Lived  over  on  the  other  bank,  right  opposite  to 

him. 

It  was  the  pensive  oysterman  that  saw  a  lovely 

maid, 
Upon   a   moonlight   evening,    a-sitting    in    the 

shade ; 
He  saw  her  wave  her  handkerchief,  as  much  as 

if  to  say, 
"I'm  wide  awake,  young  oysterman,  and  all 

the  folks  away." 

Then  up  arose  the  oysterman,  and  to  himself 

said  he, 
"  I  guess  I  '11  leave  the  skiff  at  home,  for  fear 

that  folks  should  see  ; 
I  read  it  in  the  story-book,  that,  for  to  kiss  his 

dear, 
Leander    swam   the    Hellespont,  —  and   I  will 

swim  this  here." 

And  he  lias  leaped  into  the  waves,  and  crossed 

the  shining  stream, 
And  he  has  clambered  up  the  bank,  all  in  the 

moonlight  gleam  ; 
Oh  there  were  kisses  sweet  as  dew,  and  words 

as  soft  as  rain,  — 
But  they  have  heard  her  father's  step,  and  in 

he  leaps  again  ! 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  —  ;1  Oh,  what 

was  that,  my  daughter  ?  " 
"  'T  was  nothing  but  a  pebble,  sir,  I  threw  into 

the  water." 
"  And  what   is   that,  pray  tell  me,  love,  that 

paddles  off  so  fast  ?  " 
"  It 's  nothing  but  a  porpoise,  sir,  that 's  been 

a-swimming  past." 


330 


APPENDIX 


Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  —  "  Now  bring 

me  my  harpoon  ! 
I  '11  get  into  my  fishing-boat,  and  fix  the  fellow 


. 
Down  fell  that  pretty  innocent,  as  falls  a  snow- 

white  lamb, 
Her  hair  drooped  round  her  pallid  cheeks,  like 

seaweed  on  a  clam. 

Alas  for  those  two  loving  ones  !  she  waked  not 

from  her  swound, 
And  he  was  taken  with  the  cramp,  and  in  the 

waves  was  drowned  ; 
But  Fate  has  metamorphosed  them,  in  pity  of 

their  woe, 
And  now  they  keep  an  oyster-shop  for  mer 

maids  down  below. 


A   NOONTIDE   LYRIC 

THE  dinner-bell,  the  dinner-bell 

Is  ringing  loud  and  clear  ; 
Through  hill  and  plain,  through  street  and  lane, 

It  echoes  far  and  near  ; 
From  curtained  hall  and  whitewashed  stall, 

Wherever  men  can  hide, 
Like  bursting  waves  from  ocean  caves, 

They  float  upon  the  tide. 

I  smell  the  smell  of  roasted  meat ! 

I  hear  the  hissing  fry  ! 
The  beggars  know  where  they  can  go, 

But  where,  oh  where  shall  I  ? 
At  twelve  o'clock  men  took  my  hand, 

At  two  they  only  stare, 
And  eye  me  with  a  fearful  look, 

As  if  I  were  a  bear ! 

The  poet  lays  his  laurels  down, 
„     And  hastens  to  his  greens  ; 
The  happy  tailor  quits  his  goose, 

To  riot  on  his  beans ; 
The  weary  cobbler  snaps  his  thread, 

The  printer  leaves  his  pi ; 
His  very  devil  hath  a  home, 

But  what,  oh  what  have  I  ? 

Methinks  I  hear  an  angel  voice, 

That  softly  seems  to  say  : 
"  Pale  stranger,  all  may  yet  be  well, 

Then  wipe  thy  tears  away  ; 
Erect  thy  head,  and  cock  thy  hat, 

And  follow  me  afar, 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  jolly  meal, 

And  charge  it  at  the  bar." 

I  hear  the  voice  !    I  go !    I  go ! 

Prepare  your  meat  and  wine  ! 
They  little  heed  their  future  need 

Who  pay  not  when  they  dine. 
Give  me  to-day  the  rosy  bowl, 

Give  me  one  golden  dream,  — 
To-morrow  kick  away  the  stool, 

And  dangle  from  the  beam  ! 


THE  HOT   SEASON 

THE  folks,  that  on  the  first  of  May 

Wore  winter  coats  and  hose, 
Began  to  say,  the  first  of  June, 

tk  Good  Lord  !  how  hot  it  grows  !  " 
At  last  two  Fahrenheits  blew  up, 

And  killed  two  children  small, 
And  one  barometer  shot  dead 

A  tutor  with  its  ball ! 

Now  all  day  long  the  locusts  sang 

Among  the  leafless  trees  ; 
Three  new  hotels  warped  inside  out, 

The  pumps  could  only  wheeze  ; 
And  ripe  old  wine,  that  twenty  years 

Had  cobwebbed  o'er  in  vain, 
Came  spouting  through  the  rotten  corks 

Like  Joly's  best  champagne  ! 

The  Worcester  locomotives  did 

Their  trip  in  half  an  hour ; 
The  Lowell  cars  ran  forty  miles 

Before  they  checked  the  power  ; 
Roll  brimstone  soon  became  a  drug, 

And  loco-focos  fell ; 
All  asked  for  ice,  but  everywhere 

Saltpetre  was  to  sell. 

Plump  men  of  mornings  ordered  tights, 

But,  ere  the  scorching  noons, 
Their  candle-moulds  had  grown  as  loose 

As  Cossack  pantaloons ! 
The  dogs  ran  mad,  —  men  could  not  try 

If  water  they  would  choose  ; 
A  horse  fell  dead,  —  he  only  left 

Four  red-hot,  rusty  shoes ! 

But  soon  the  people  could  not  bear 

The  slightest  hint  of  fire  ; 
Allusions  to  caloric  drew 

A  flood  of  savage  ire  ; 
The  leaves  on  heat  were  all  torn  out 

From  every  book  at  school, 
And  many  blackguards  kicked  and  caned, 

Because  they  said,  "  Keep  cool !  " 

The  gas-light  companies  were  mobbed, 

The  bakers  all  were  shot, 
The  penny  press  began  to  talk 

Of  lynching  Doctor  Nott  ; 
And  all  about  the  warehouse  steps 

Were  angry  men  in  droves, 
Crashing  and  splintering  through  the  doors 

To  smash  the  patent  stoves  ! 

The  abolition  men  and  maids 

Were  tanned  to  such  a  hue, 
You  scarce  could  tell  them  from  their  friends, 

Unless  their  eyes  were  blue  ; 
And,  when  I  left,  society 

Had  burst  its  ancient  guards, 
And  Brattle  Street  and  Temple  Place 

Were  interchanging  cards  ! 


ArERSES   FROM   THE  OLDEST   PORTFOLIO 


A    PORTRAIT 

A  STILL,  sweet,  placid,  moonlight  face, 

And  slightly  nonchalant. 
Which  seems  to  claim  a  middle  place 

Between  one's  love  and  aunt, 
Where  childhood's  star  has  left  a  ray 

In  woman's  sunniest  sky, 
As  morning  dew  and  blushing  day 

On  fruit  and  hlossom  lie. 

And  yet,  —  and  yet  I  cannot  love 

Those  lovely  lines  011  steel  ; 
They  beam  too  much  of  heaven  above, 

Earth's  darker  shades  to  feel ; 
Perchance  some  early  weeds  of  care 

Around  my  heart  have  grown, 
And  brows  unfurrowed  seem  not  fair, 

Because  they  mock  my  own. 

Alas  !  when  Eden's  gates  were  sealed, 

How  oft  some  sheltered  flower 
Breathed  o'er  the  wanderers  of  the  field, 

Like  their  own  bridal  bower  ; 
Yet,  saddened  by  its  loveliness, 

And  humbled  by  its  pride, 
Earth's  fairest  child  they  could  not  bless, 

It  mocked  them  when  they  sighed. 


AN  EVENING   THOUGHT 

WRITTEN"     AT     SKA 

IF  sometimes  in  the  dark  blue  eye, 

Or  in  the  deep  red  wine, 
Or  soothed  by  gentlest  melody, 

Still  warms  this  heart  of  mine, 
Yet  something  colder  in  the  blood, 

And  calmer  in  the  brain, 
Have  whispered  that  my  youth's  bright  flood 

Ebbs,  not  to  flow  again. 

If  by  Helvetia's  azure  lake, 

Or  Arno's  yellow  stream, 
Each  star  of  memory  could  awake, 

As  in  my  first  young  dream, 
I  know  that  when  mine  eye  shall  greet 

The  hillsides  bleak  and  bare, 
That  gird  my  home,  it  will  not  meet 

My  childhood's  sunsets  there. 

Oh.  when  love's  first,  sweet,  stolen  kiss 

Burned  on  my  boyish  brow, 
Was  that  young  forehead  worn  as  this  ? 

Was  that  flushed  cheek  as  now  ? 
Were  that  wild  pulse  and  throbbing  heart 

Like  these,  which  vainly  strive, 
In  thankless  strains  of  soulless  art, 

To  dream  themselves  alive  ? 

Alas  !  the  morning  dew  is  gone. 

Gone  ere  the  full  of  day  ; 
Life's  iron  fetter  still  is  on, 

Its  wreaths  all  torn  away  ; 


Happy  if  still  some  casual  hour 
Can  warm  the  fading  shrine, 

Too  soon  to  chill  beyond  the  power 
Of  love,  or  song,  or  wine  ! 


THE   WASP"    AND    "THE    HORNET 

THE  two  proud  sisters  of  the  sea, 

In  glory  and  in  doom  !  — 
Well  may  the  eternal  waters  be 

Their  broad,  unsculptured  tomb  ! 
The  wind  that  rings  along  the  wave, 

The  clear,  unshadowed  sun, 
Are  torch  and  trumpet  o'er  the  brave, 

Whose  last  green  wreath  is  won  ! 

No  stranger-hand  their  banners  furled, 

No  victor's  shout  they  heard  ; 
Unseen,  above  them  ocean  curled, 

Safe  by  his  own  pale  bird  ; 
The  gnashing  billows  heaved  and  fell ; 

Wild  shrieked  the  midnight  gale  ; 
Far,  far  beneath  the  morning  swell 

Were  pennon,  spar,  and  sail. 

The  land  of  Freedom  !     Sea  and  shore 

Are  guarded  now,  as  when 
Her  ebbing  waves  to  victory  bore 

Fair  barks  and  gallant  men  ; 
Oh.  many  a  ship  of  prouder  name 

May  wave  her  starry  fold, 
Nor  trail,  with  deeper  light  of  fame, 

The  paths  they  swept  of  old  ! 


"  QUI    VIVE?" 

''  Qui  vive  ?  "     The  sentry's  musket  rings, 

The  channelled  bayonet  gleams  ; 
High  o'er  him,  like  a  raven's  wings 
The  broad  tricolored  banner  flings 
Its  shadow,  rustling  as  it  swings 

Pale  in  the  moonlight  beams  ; 
Pass  on  !  while  steel-clad  sentries  keep 
Their  vigil  o'er  the  monarch's  sleep, 

Thy  bare,  unguarded  breast 
Asks  not  the  unbroken,  bristling  zone 
That  girds  yon  sceptred  trembler's  throne 

Pass  on,  and  take  thy  rest ! 

IIowr  oft  the  midnight  air 

___ 0  cry  has  borne  ! 

How  oft  the  evening  breeze  has  fanned 
The  banner  of  this  haughty  land, 
O'er  mountain  snow  and  desert  sand, 

Ere  yet  its  folds  were  torn  ! 
Through  Jena's  carnage  flying  red. 
Or  tossing  o'er  Marengo's  dead, 

Or  curling  on  the  towers 
Where  Austria's  eagle  quivers  yet, 
And  suns  the  ruffled  plumage,  wet 

With  battle's  crimson  showers  ! 


''  Qui  vive  ?" 
That  startliiu 


"  Qui  vive  ?  "     And  is  the  sentry's  cry,  — 

The  sleepless  soldier's  hand,  — 
Are  these  —  the  painted  folds  that  fly 


332 


APPENDIX 


Aud  lift  their  emblems,  printed  high 
On  morning  mist  and  sunset  sky  — 

The  guardians  of  a  land  ? 
No  1    If  the  patriot's  pulses  sleep, 
How  vain  the  watch  that  hirelings  keep,  — 

The  idle  flag  that  waves, 
When  Conquest,  with  his  iron  heel, 
Treads  down  the  standards  and  the  steel 

That  belt  the  soil  of  slaves  1 


A  SOUVENIR 

YES,  lady  !   I  can  ne'er  forget, 
That  once  in  other  years  we  met ; 
Thy  memory  may  perchance  recall 
A  festal  eve,  a  rose-wreathed  hall, 
Its  tapers'  blaze,  its  mirrors'  glance, 
Its  melting  song,  its  ringing  glance  ;  — 
Why,  in  thy  dream  of  virgin  joy, 
Shouldst  thou  recall  a  pallid  boy  ? 

Thine  eye  had  other  forms  to  seek, 

Why  rest  upon  his  bashful  cheek  ? 

With  other  tones  thy  heart  was  stirred, 

Why  waste  on  him  a  gentle  word  ? 

We  parted,  lady,  —  all  night  long 

Thine  ear  to  thrill  with  dance  and  song,  — 

And  I  —  to  weep  that  I  was  born 

A  thing  thou  scarce  wouldst  deign  to  scorn. 

And,  lady  !  now  that  years  have  past, 
My  bark  has  reached  the  shore  at  last ; 
The  gales  that  filled  her  ocean  wing, 
Have  chilled  and  shrunk  thy  hasty  spring, 
Aud  eye  to  eye,  and  brow  to  brow, 
I  stand  before  thy  presence  now  ;  — 
Thy  lip  is  smoothed,  thy  voice  is  sweet, 
Thy  warm  hand  offered  when  we  meet. 

Nay,  lady !  't  is  not  now  for  me 
To  droop  the  lid  or  bend  the  knee. 
I  seek  thee,  —  oh  thou  dost  not  shun; 
I  speak,  —  thou  listenest  like  a  nun  ; 
I  ask  thy  smile,  —  thy  lip  uncurls, 
Too  liberal  of  its  flashing  pearls  ; 
Thy  tears,  —  thy  lashes  sing  again,  — 
My  Hebe  turns  to  Magdalen ! 

0  changing  youth  !  that  evening  hour 
Looked  down  on  ours,  —  the  bud  —  the  flower 
Thine  faded  in  its  virgin  soil, 
And  mine  was  nursed  in  tears  and  toil; 
Thy  leaves  were  withering,  one  by  one, 
While  mine  were  opening  to  the  sun. 
Which  now  can  meet  the  cold  and  storm, 
With  freshest  leaf  and  hardiest  form  ? 

Ay,  lady !  that  once  haughty  glance 

Still  wanders  through  the  glittering  dance, 

She  asks  in  vain  from  others'  pride, 

The  charity  thine  own  denied  ; 

And  as  thy  fickle  lips  could  learn 

To  smile  and  praise,  —  that  used  to  spurn, 

So  the  last  offering  on  thy  shrine 

Shall  be  this  flattering  lay  of  mine  ! 


THE  DYING   SENECA 

HE  died  not  as  the  martyr  dies, 
Wrapped  in  his  living  shroud  of  flame ; 

He  fell  not  as  the  warrior  falls, 
Gasping  upon  the  field  of  fame  ; 

A  gentler  passage  to  the  grave, 

The  murderer's  softened  fury  gave. 

Rome's  slaughtered  sons  and  blazing  piles 
Had  tracked  the  purpled  demon's  path, 

And  yet  another  victim  lived 
To  fill  the  fiery  scroll  of  wrath  ; 

Could  not  imperial  vengeance  spare 

His  furrowed  brow  and  silver  hair  ? 

The  field  was  sown  with  noble  blood, 
The  harvest  reaped  in  burning  tears, 

When,  rolling  up  its  crimson  flood, 

Broke  the  long-gathering  tide  of  years  ; 

His  diadem  was  rent  away, 

Aud  beggars  trampled  on  his  clay. 

None  wept,  —  none  pitied  ;  —  they  who  knelt 
At  morning  by  the  despot's  throne, 

At  evening  dashed  the  laurelled  bust, 

And  spurned  the  wreaths    themselves    had 
strown ; 

The  shout  of  triumph  echoed  wide, 

The  self-stung  reptile  writhed  and  died  ! 


THE  LAST  PROPHECY   OF  CASSANDRA 

THE  sun  is  fading  in  the  skies, 
And  evening  shades  are  gathering  fast ; 

Fair  city,  ere  that  sun  shall  rise, 
Thy  night  hath  come,  —  thy  day  is  past ! 

Ye  know  not,  —  but  the  hour  is  nigh  ; 

Ye  will  not  heed  the  warning  breath  ; 
No  vision  strikes  your  clouded  eye, 

To  break  the  sleep  that  wakes  in  death. 

Go,  age,  and  let  thy  withered  cheek 
Be  wet  once  more  with  freezing  tears  ; 

And  bid  thy  trembling  sorrows  speak, 
In  accents  of  departed  years. 

Go,  child,  and  pour  thy  sinless  prayer 

Before  the  everlasting  throne  ; 
And  He,  who  sits  in  glory  there, 

May  stoop  to  hear  thy  silver  tone. 

Go,  warrior,  in  thy  glittering  steel, 
And  bow  thee  at  the  altar's  side  ; 

And  bid  thy  frowning  gods  reveal 
The  doom  their  mystic  counsels  hide. 

Go,  maiden,  in  thy  flowing  veil, 
And  bare  thy  brow,  and  bend  thy  knee  ; 

When  the  last  hopes  of  mercy  fail, 
Thy  God  may  yet  remember  thee. 

Go,  as  thou  didst  in  happier  hours, 
And  lay  thine  incense  on  the  shrine : 


ASTR^A  :   THE  BALANCE  OF  ILLUSIONS 


333 


And  greener  leaves,  and  fairer  flowers, 
Around  the  sacred  image  twine. 

I  saw  them  rise,  —  the  buried  dead,  — 
From  marble  tomb  and  grassy  mound  ; 

I  heard  the  spirits'  printless  tread, 
And  voices  not  of  earthly  sound. 

I  looked  upon  the  quivering-  stream, 
And  its  cold  wave  was  bright  with  flame  ; 

And  wild,  as  from  a  fearful  dream, 
The  wasted  forms  of  battle  came. 

Ye  will  not  hear,  —  ye  will  not  know,  — 
Ye  scorn  the  maniac's  idle  song  ; 

Ye  care  not !  but  the  voice  of  woe 
Shall  thunder  loud,  and  echo  long. 

Blood  shall  be  in  your  marble  halls, 

And  spears  shall  glance,  and  lire  shall  glow; 

Ruin  shall  sit  upon  your  walls, 
But  ye  shall  lie  in  death  below. 

Ay,  none  shall  live,  to  hear  the  storm 
Around  their  blackened  pillars  sweep  ; 

To  shudder  at  the  reptile's  form, 
Or  scare  the  wild  bird  from  her  sleep. 


TO    MY    COMPANIONS 

MINE  ancient  chair  !  thy  wide-embracing  arnu 
Have  clasped  around  me  even  from  a  boy  ; 

Hadst  thou  a  voice  to  speak  of  years  gone  by, 
Thine  were  a  tale  of  sorrow  and  of  joy, 

Of  fevered  hopes  and  ill-foreboding  fears, 

And  smiles  unseen,  and  unrecorded  tears. 

And  thou,  my  table  !  though  unwearied  time 
Hath  set  his  signet  on  thine  altered  brow, 

Still  can  I  see  thee  in  thy  spotless  prime, 
And  in  my  memory  thou  art  living  now  ; 

Soon  must  thou  slumber  with  forgotten  things, 

The  peasant's  ashes  and  the  dust  of  kings. 

Thou  melancholy  mug  !  thy  sober  brown 
Hath  something  pensive  in  its  evening  hue, 

Not  like  the  things  that  please  the   tasteless 

clown, 
With  gaudy  streaks  of  orange  and  of  blue  ; 

And  I  must  love  thee,  for  thou  art  mine  o\vn, 

Pressed  by  my  lip,  and  pressed  by  mine  alone. 

My  broken  mirror  !  faithless,  yet  beloved, 
Thou  who  canst  smile,  and  smile  alike  on  all, 

Oft  do  I  leave  thee,  oft  again  return, 
I  scorn  the  siren,  but  obey  the  call ; 

i  hate  thy  falsehood,  while  I  fear  thy  truth. 

But  most  I  love  thee,  flattering  friend  of  youth. 

Primeval  carpet  !  every  well-worn  thread 
Has  slowly  parted  with  its  virgin  dye  ; 

I  saw  thee  fade  beneath  the  ceaseless  tread, 
Fainter  and  fainter  in  mine  anxious  eye  ; 

So  flies  the  color  from  the  brightest  flower, 

And  heaven's  own  rainbow   lives   but  for  an 
hour. 


I  love  you  all !  there  radiates  from  our  own, 

A  soul  that  lives  in  every  shape  we  see  ; 
There  is  a  voice,  to  other  ears  unknown, 

Like  echoed  music  answering  to  its  key. 
The  dungeoned  captive  hath  a  tale  to  tell, 
Of  every  insect  in  his  lonely  cell ; 
And  these  poor  frailties  have  a  simple  tone, 
That  breathes  in  accents  sweet  to  me  alone. 


II.    ASTR.EA:    THE    BALANCE    OF 
ILLUSIONS 

[Tins  poem,  first  delivered  before  the  $  B  K 
society  of  Yale  College,  August  14,  1850,  was 
published  the  same  year  and  only  recently  dis 
appeared  as  a  separate  publication ;  but  upon 
rearranging  his  poems  for  an  early  collective 
edition,  Dr.  Holmes  included  a  group  of  Pic- 
tun-sfro/n  Occasional  .Poe MS,  in  which  he  placed 
certain  excerpts  from  Astra  a.  These  passages 
were  retained  without  the  grouped  heading  in 
his  final  Riverside  edition,  and  are  reproduced 
in  this  edition.  Astra  a,  however,  has  had  an 
independent  life  so  long  that  it  seems  best  to 
reproduce  it  here,  indicating  the  excerpts  in 
their  places.] 

WHAT  secret  charm,  long  whispering  in  mine  ear, 
Allures,  attracts,  compels,  and  chains  me  here, 
Where  murmuring  echoes  call  me  to  resign 
Their  sacred  haunts  to  sweeter  lips  than  mine  ; 
Where  silent  pathways  pierce  the  solemn  shade, 
In  whose  still  depths  my  feet  have  never 

strayed; 

Here,  in  the  home  where  grateful  children  meet 
And  I,  half  alien,  take  the  stranger's  seat, 
Doubting,  yet  hoping  that  the  gift  I  bear 
May  keep  its  bloom  in  this  unwonted  air? 
Hush,  idle  fancy,  with  thy  needless  art, 
Speak   from   thy   fountains,    0   my    throbbing 

heart ! 

Say,  shall  I  trust  these  trembling  lips  to  tell 
The  fireside  tale  that  memory  knows  so  well  ? 
How,  in  the  days  of  Freedom's  dread  campaign, 
A  home-bred  schoolboy  left  his  village  plain, 
Slow  faring  southward,  till  his  wearied  feet 
Pressed  the  worn  threshold  of  this  fair  retreat ; 
How,  with  his  comely  face  and  gracious  mien, 
He  joined  the  concourse  of  the  classic  green, 
Nameless,  unfriended,  yet  by  nature  blest 
With  the  rich  tokens  that  she  loves  the  best ; 
The    flowing    locks,     his     youth's    redundant 

crown, 

Smoothed  o'er  a  brow  unfurrowed  by  a  frown  ; 
The   untaught  smile   that  speaks    so    passing 

!>lain 
d  all  hope,  a  past  without  a  stain  ; 
The  clear-lined  cheek,  whose  burning  current 

glows 

Crimson  in  action,  carmine  in  repose  ; 
Gifts  such  as  purchase,  with  unminted  gold, 
Smiles  from  the  young  and  blessings  from  the 
old. 


334 


APPENDIX 


Say,  shall  my  hand  with  pious  love  restore 
The  faint,  far  pictures  time  beholds  no  more  ? 
How  the  grave  Senior,  lie  whose  later  fame 
Stamps  on  our  laws  his  own  undying1  name, 
Saw  from  on  high,  "with  half  paternal  joy, 
Some  spark  of  promise  in  the  studious  boy, 
And  bade  him  enter,  with  benignant  tone, 
Those  stately  precincts  which  he    called    his 

own, 

Where  the  fresh  student  and  the  youthful  sage 
Head  by  one  taper  from  the  common  page  ; 
How  the  true  comrade,  whose  maturer  date 
Graced  the  large  honors  of  his  ancient  State, 
Sought  his  young  friendship,   which  through 

every  change 

No  time  could  weaken,  no  remove  estrange  ; 
How  the  great  MASTER,  reverend,  solemn,  wise, 
Fixed  on  his  face  those  calm,  majestic  eyes, 
Full  of  grave  meaning,  where  a  child  might 

read 
The    Hebraist's   patience    and    the    Pilgrim's 

creed, 

But  warm  with  flashes  of  parental  fire 
That  drew  the  stripling  to  his  second  sire  ; 
How  kindness  ripened,  till  the  youth  might 

dare 

Take  the  low  seat  beside  his  sacred  chair, 
While  the  gray  scholar,  bending  o'er  the  young, 
Spelled  the  square  types  of  Abraham's  ancient 

tongue, 

Or  with  mild  rapture  stooped  devoutly  o'er 
His  small  coarse  leaf,  alive  with  curious  lore  : 
Tales  of  grim  judges,  at  whose  awful  beck 
Flashed  the  broad  blade  across  a  royal  neck, 
Or  learned  dreams  of  Israel's  long  lost  child 
Found  in  the  wanderer  of  the  western  wild. 

Dear  to  his  age  were  memories  such  as  these, 
Leaves  of  his  June  in  life's  autumnal  breeze  ; 
Such  were  the  tales  that  won  my  boyish  ear, 
Told  in  low  tones  that  evening  loves  to  hear. 

Thus  in  the  scene  I  pass  so  lightly  o'er, 
Trod  for  a  moment,  then  beheld  no  more, 
Strange  shapes  and  dim,  unseen  by  other  eyes, 
Through  the  dark  portals  of  the  past  arise; 
I  see  no  more  the  fair  embracing  throng, 
I  hear  no  echo  to  my  saddened  song, 
No  more  I  heed  the  kind  or  curious  gaze, 
The  voice  of  blame,  the  rustling  thrill  of  praise  ; 
Alone,  alone,  the  awful  past  I  tread 
White  with  the  marbles  of  the  slumbering  dead  ; 
One  shadowy  form  my  dreaming  eyes  behold 
That  leads  my  footsteps  as  it  led  of  old, 
One  floating  voice,  amid  the  silence  heard, 
Breathes    in    my  ear    love's    long    unspoken 

word  ;  — 
These  are  the  scenes  thy  youthful  eyes  have 

known  ; 

My  heart's  warm  pulses  claim  them  as  its  own  ! 
The  sapling,  compassed  in  thy  fingers'  clasp, 
My  arms  scarce  circle  in  their  twice-told  grasp, 
Yet  in  each  leaf  of  yon  o'ershadowing  tree 
I  read  a  legend  that  was  traced  by  thee. 
Year  after  year  the  living  wave  has  beat 
These  smooth-worn  channels  with  its  trampling 

feet, 


Yet  in  each  line  that  scores  the  grassy  sod 
I  see  the  pathway  where  thy  feet  have  trod. 
Though  from  the  scene  that  hears  my  faltering 

lay. 

The  few  that  loved  thee  long  have  passed  away, 
Thy  sacred  presence  all  the  landscape  fills, 
Its  groves  and  plains  and  adamantine  hills  ! 

Ye  who  have  known  the  sudden  tears  that 

flow,  — 
Sad  tears,  yet    sweet,  the  dews    of  twilight 

woe, — 
When,  led  by  chance,  your  wandering  eye  has 

crossed 

Some  poor  memorial  of  the  loved  and  lost, 
Bear  with  my  weakness  as  I  look  around 
On  the  dear  relics  of  this  holy  ground, 
These  bowery  cloisters,  shadowed  and  serene, 
My  dreams  have  pictured  ere  mine  eyes  have 

seen. 

And  oh,  forgive  me,  if  the  flower  I  brought 
Droops  in  my  hand  beside  this  burning  thought; 
The  hopes  and  fears  that  marked  this  destined 

hour, 

The  chill  of  doubt,  the  startled  throb  of  power, 
The  flush  of  pride,  the  trembling  glow  of  shame, 
All  fade  away  and  leave  my  FATHER'S  name  1 

[Here  appears  SPRING,  ante  p.  80.] 

What  life  is  this,  that  spreads  in  sudden  birth 
Its  plumes  of  light  around  a  new-born  earth  ? 
Is  this  the  sun  that  brought  the  unwelcome  day, 
Pallid  and  glimmering  with  his  lifeless  ray, 
Or  through  the  sash  that  bars  yon  narrow  cage 
Slanted,  intrusive,  on  the  opened  page  ? 
Is  this  soft  breath  the  same  complaining  gale 
That  filled  my  slumbers  with  its  murmuring 

e  wail  ? 

Is  this  green  mantle  of  elastic  sod 
The  same  brown  desert  with  its  frozen  clod, 
Where  the  last  ridges  of  the  dingy  snow 
Lie  till  the  windflower  blooms  unstained  below  ? 

Thus  to  my  heart  its  wonted  tides  return 
When  sullen  Winter  breaks  his  crystal  urn, 
And  o'er  the  turf  in  wild  profusion  showers 
Its  dewy  leaflets  and  ambrosial  flowers. 
In  vacant  rapture  for  a  while  I  range 
Through  the  wide  scene  of  universal  change, 
Till,  as  the  statue  in  its  nerves  of  stone 
Felt  the  new  senses  wakening  one  by  one, 
Each  long  closed  inlet  finds  its  destined  ray 
Through  the  dark  curtain  Spring  has  rent  away. 
I  crush  the  buds  the  clustering  lilacs  bear; 
The  same  sweet  fragrance  that  I  loved  is  there  ; 
The  same  fresh  hues  each  opening  disk  reveals  ; 
Soft  as  of  old  each  silken  petal  feels ; 
The  birch's  rind  its  flavor  still  retains, 
Its    boughs    still    ringing  with  the    self-same 

strains ; 

Above,  around,  rekindling  Nature  claims 
Her  glorious  altars  wreathed  in  living  flames  ; 
Undimmed,  unshadowed,  far  as  morning  shines 
Feeds  with  fresh  incense  her  eternal  shrines. 
Lost  in  her  arms,  her  burning  life  I  share, 
Breathe  the  wild  freedom  of  her  perfumed  air. 


ASTR.EA:    THE  BALANCE  OF  ILLUSIONS 


335 


From     Heaven's    fair    face    the    long'  -  drawn 

shadows  roll, 
And  all  its  sunshine  floods  my  opening-  soul ! 

[Here  appears  THE  STUDY,  ante  p.  82.] 

See,  while  I  speak,  my  fireside  joys  return, 
The  lamp  rekindles  and  the  ashes  burn. 
The  dream  of  summer  fades  before  their  ray, 
As  in  red  firelight  sunshine  dies  away. 

A  two-fold  picture  ;  ere  the  lirst  was  gone, 
The  deepening  outline  of  the  next  was  drawn, 
And  wavering  fancy  hardly  dares  to  choose 
The  first  or  last  of  her  dissolving1  views. 

No  Delphic  sage  is  wanted  to  divine 
The  shape  of  Truth  beneath  my  gauzy  line  ; 
Yet  there  are  truths,  —  like  schoolmates,  once 

well  known, 

But  half  remembered,  not  enough  to  own,  — 
That,  lost  from  sight  in  life's  bewildering  train, 
May  be,  like  strangers,  introduced  again, 
Dressed  in  new  feathers,  as  from  time  to  time 
May  please  our  friends,  the  milliners  of  rhyme. 

Trust  not,  it  says,  the  momentary  hue 
Whose    false    complexion    paints    the    present 

view ; 

Red,  yellow,  violet  stain  the  rainbow's  light, 
The  prism  dissolves,  and  all  again  is  white. 

[Here  appears  THE  BELLS,  ante  p.  IS.').] 

But  how,  alas  !  among  our  eager  race, 
Shall  smiling  candor  show  her  girlish  face  ? 
What  place  is  secret  to  the  meddling  crew. 
Whose  trade  is  settling  what  we  all  shall  do  ? 
What  verdict  sacred  from  the  busy  fools, 
That  sell  the  jargon  of  their  outlaw  schools  '? 
What  pulpit  certain  to  be  never  vexed 
With  libels  sanctioned  by  a  holy  text? 
Where,  O  my  country,  is  the  spot  that  yields 
The  freedom  fought  for  on  a  hundred  fields  ? 

Xot  one  strong-  tyrant  holds  the  servile  chain, 
Where   all   may  vote   and   each  may  hope   to 

reign  ; 

One  sturdy  cord  a  single  limb  may  bind, 
And  leave  the  captive  only  half  confined, 
But  the  free  spirit  finds  its  legs  and  wings 
Tied  with  unnumbered  Lilliputian  strings, 
Which,  like  the  spider's  undiscovered  fold, 
In  countless  meshes  round  the  prisoner  rolled, 
With  silken  pressure  that  he  scarce  can  feel, 
Clamp  every  fibre  as  in  bands  of  steel  ! 

Hard  is  the  task  to  point  in  civil  phrase 
One's  own  dear  people's  foolish  works  or  wr 
Woe  to  the  friend  that  marks  a  touchy  fault, 
I  limself  obnoxious  to  the  world's  assault  ! 
Think  what  an  earthquake  is  a  nation's  hiss, 
That  takes  its  circuit  through  a  land  like  this 
Count  with  the  census,  would  you  be  precise, 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  oranges  to  ice  ; 
A  thousand  myriads  are  its  virile  lungs, 
A  thousand  myriads  its  contralto  tongues  ! 

And  oh,  remember  the  indignant  press  ; 
Honey  is  bitter  to  its  fond  caress, 


ays 


But  the  black  venom  that  its  hate  lets  fall 
Would  shame  to  sweetness  the  hyena's  gall ! 

Briefly  and  gently  let  the  task  be  tried 
To  touch  some  frailties  on  their  tender  side  ; 
Not  to  dilate  on  each  imagined  wrong, 
And  spoil  at  once  our  temper  and  our  song, 
I] ut  once  or  twice  a  passing  gleam  to  throw 
On  some  rank  failings  ripe  enough  to  show. 
Patterns  of  others,  —  made  of  common  stuir', 
The  world  will  furnish  parallels  enough,  — 
Such  as  bewilder  their  contracted  view, 
Who  make  one  pupil  do  the  work  of  two  ; 
Who  following  nature,  where  her  tracks  divide, 
Drive  all  their  passions  on  the  narrower  side, 
And  pour  the  phials  of  their  virtuous  wrath 
On  half  mankind  that  take  the  wider  path. 

Nature  is  liberal  to  her  inmost  soul, 
She  loves  alike  the  tropic  and  the  pole. 
The   storm's  wild  anthem,  and  the  sunshine's 

calm, 

The  arctic  fungus,  and  the  desert  palm  ; 
Loves  them  alike,  and  wills  that  each  maintain 
Its  destined  share  of  her  divided  reign  ; 
Xo  creeping  moss  refuse  her  crystal  gem, 
Xo  soaring  pine  her  cloudy  diadem  ! 

Alas  !  her  children,  borrowing  but  in  part 
The  flowing  pulses  of  her  generous  heart, 
Shame  their  kind  mother  with  eternal  strife 
At  all  the  crossings  of  their  mingled  life  ; 
Each  age,  each  people  finds  its  ready  shifts 
To  quarrel  stoutly  o'er  her  choicest  gifts. 

Jlistory  can  tell  of  early  ages  dim. 
When  man's  chief  glory  was  in  strength  of  limb; 
Then  the  best  patriot  gave  the  hardest  knocks, 
The  height  of  virtue  was  to  fell  an  ox  ; 
-11  fared  the  babe  of  questionable  mould, 
Whom  its  stern  father  happened  to  behold  ; 
III  vain  the  mother  with  her  ample  vest 
Mid  the  poor  nursling  on  her  throbbing  breast  ; 
No  tears  could  save  him  from  the  kitten's  fate, 
To  live  an  insult  to  the  warlike  state. 

This   weakness   passed,    and   nations    owned 

once  more, 

|    Man  was  still  human,  measuring  five  feet  four. 
The  anti-cripples  ceased  to  domineer. 
And  owned  Napoleon  worth  a  grenadier. 

Jn  these  mild  times  the  ancient  bully's  sport 
•    Would  lead  its  hero  to  a  well  known  court  ; 
j   Olympian  athletes,  though  the  pride  of  Greece, 
Must  face  the  Justice  if  they  broke  tin.'  peace, 
And  valor  find  some  inconvenient  checks, 
!    If  strolling  Theseus  met  Policeman  X. 

[Here  appears  NON-RESISTANCE,  ante  p.  S3.] 

Yet  when  thy  champion's  stormy  task  is  done. 
The  frigate  silenced  and  the  fortress  won, 
When  toil-worn  valor  claims  his  laurel  wreath, 
His  reeking  cutlass  slumbering  in  its  sheath, 
The  fierce  declaimer  shall  be  heard  once  more, 
Whose  twang  was  smothered  by  the  conflict's 
roar  ; 


336 


APPENDIX 


Heroes  shall  fall  that  strode  unharmed  away 
Through  the  red  heaps  of  many  a  doubtful  day, 
Hacked  in  his  sermons,  riddled  in  his  prayers, 
The  broadcloth  slashing  what  the  broadsword 
spares ! 

Untaught  by  trial,  ignorance  might  suppose 
That  all  our  lighting  must  be  done  with  blows  ; 
Alas  !  not  so  ;  between  the  lips  and  brain 
A  dread  artillery  masks  its  loaded  train  ; 
The  smooth  portcullis  of  the  smiling  face 
Veils  the  grim  battery  with  deceptive  grace, 
But  in  the  flashes  of  its  opened  fire, 
Truth,  Honor,  Justice,  Peace  and  Love  expire. 

[Here  appears  THE  MORAL  BULLY,  ante  p. 
84.] 

If  generous  fortune  give  me  leave  to  choose 
My  saucy  neighbors  barefoot  or  in  shoes, 
I  leave  the  hero  blustering  while  he  dares 
On  platforms  furnished  with  posterior  stairs, 
Till  prudence  drives  him  to  his  "  earnest"  legs 
With  large  bequest  of  disappointed  eggs, 
And  take  the  brawler  whose  unstudied  dress 
Becomes  him  better,  and  protects  him  less  ; 
Give  me  the  bullying  of  the  scoundrel  crew, 
If  swaggering  virtue  won't  insult  me  too  ! 

Come,  let  us  breathe  ;  a  something  not  divine 
Has  mingled,  bitter,  with  the  flowing  line. 
Pause  for  a  moment  while  our  soul  forgets 
The  noisy  tribe  in  panta-loons  or  -lets  ; 
Nor  pass,  ungrateful,  by  the  debt  we  owe 
To  those  who  teach  us  half  of  all  we  know, 
Not  in  rude  license,  or  unchristian  scorn, 
But  hoping,  loving,  pitying,  while  they  Avarn  ! 

Sweep  out  the  pieces !   Round  a  careless  room 
The  feather-duster  follows  up  the  broom  ; 
If  the  last  target  took  a  round  of  grape 
To  knock  its  beauty  something  out  of  shape, 
The  next  asks  only,  if  the  listener  please, 
A  schoolboy's  blowpipe  and  a  gill  of  peas. 

This  creeping  object,  caught  upon  the  brink 
Of  an  old  teacup,  filled  with  muddy  ink, 
Lives  on  a  leaf  that  buds  from  time  to  time 
In  certain  districts  of  a  temperate  clime. 
O'er  this  he  toils  in  silent  corners  snug, 
And  leaves  a  track  behind  him,  like  a  slug ; 
The  leaves  lie  stains  a  humbler  tribe  devours, 
Thrown  off  in  monthly  or  in  weekly  showers  ; 
Himself  kept  savage  on  a  starving  fare, 
Of  such  exuviae  as  his  friends  can  spare. 

Let  the  bug  drop,  and  view  him  if  we  can 
In  his  true  aspect  as  a  quasi  man. 
The  little  wretch,  whose  terebrating  powers 
Would  bore  a  Paixhan  in  a  dozen  hours, 
Is  called  a  CRITIC  by  the  heavy  friends 
That  help  to  pay  his  minus  dividends. 

The  pseudo-critic-editorial  race 
Owns  no  allegiance  but  the  law  of  place  ; 
Each  to  his  region  sticks  througli  thick  and 

thin, 
Stiff  as  a  beetle  spiked  upon  a  pin. 


Plant  him  in  Boston,  and  his  sheet  he  fills 
With  all  the  slipslop  of  his  threefold  hills, 
Talks  as  if  Nature  kept  her  choicest  smiles 
Within  his  radius  of  a  dozen  miles, 
And  nations  waited  till  his  next  Review  ' 
Had  made  it  plain  what  Providence  must  do. 
Would  you  believe  him,  water  is  not  damp 
Except  in  buckets  with  the  Hingham  stamp, 
And  Heaven  should  build  the  Avails  of  Paradise 
Of  Quincy  granite  lined  with  Wenham  ice. 

But  Hudson's  banks,   with  more  congenial 

skies, 

Swell  the  small  creature  to  alarming  size  ; 
A  gayer  pattern  wraps  his  flowery  chest, 
A  sham  more  brilliant  sparkles  on  his  breast, 
An  eyeglass,  hanging  from  a  gilded  chain, 
Taps  the  white  leg  that  tips  his  rakish  cane  ; 
Strings  of  new  names,  the  glories  of  the  age, 
Hang  up  to  dry  on  his  exterior  page, 
Titanic  pygmies,  shining  lights  obscure, 
His  favored  sheets  have  managed  to  secure, 
Whose  wide  renown  beyond  their  own  abode 
Extends  for  miles  along  the  Harlaem  road ; 
New  radiance  lights  his  patronizing  smile, 
New  airs  distinguish  his  patrician  style, 
New  sounds  are  mingled  with  his  fatal  hiss, 
Oftenest  "provincial"  and  "  metropolis.'''' 

He  cry  "provincial"  with  imperious  brow  ! 
The  half-bred  rogue,  that  groomed  his  mother's 

cow ! 

Fed  on  coarse  tubers  and  JEolian  beans 
Till  clownish  manhood  crept  among  his  teens, 
When,  after  washing  and  unheard  of  pains 
To  lard  with  phrases  his  refractory  brains, 
A  third-rate  college  licked  him  to  the  shape, 
Not  of  the  scholar,  but  the  scholar's  ape  ! 

God  bless  Manhattan  !     Let  her  fairly  claim, 
With  all  the  honors  due  her  ancient  name, 
Worth,   wisdom,    wealth,    abounding    and    to 

spare, 

Rags,  riots,  rogues,  at  least  her  honest  share  ; 
But  not  presume,  because,  by  sad  mischance, 
The  mobs  of  Paris  wring  the  neck  of  France, 
Fortune  has  ordered  she  shall  turn  the  poise 
Of  thirty  Empires  with  her  Bowery  boys  ! 

The  poorest  hamlet  on  the  mountain's  side 
Looks  on  her  glories  with  a  sister's  pride  ; 
When  the  first  babes  her  fruitful  ship-yards 

wean 
Play  round  the  breasts  of  Ocean's  conquered 

queen, 

The  shout  of  millions,  borne  on  every  breeze, 
Sweeps  with  EXCELSIOR  o'er  the  enfranchised 

seas! 

Yet  not  too  rashly  let  her  think  to  bind 
Beneath  her  circlet  all  the  nation's  mind  ; 
Our  star-crowned  mother,  whose  informing 

soul 

Clings  to  no  fragment,  but  pervades  the  whole, 
Views  with  a  smile  the  clerk  of  Maiden  Lane, 
Who  takes  her  ventral  ganglion  for  her  brain  ! 
No  fables  tell  us  of  Minerals  born 


NOTES    AND    ADDENDA 


337 


From  bags  of  cotton  or  from  sacks  of  corn  ; 
The  halls  of  Leyden  Science  used  to  cram, 
While  dulness  snored  in  purse-proud  Amster 
dam  ! 

But  those  old  burghers  had  a  foggy  clime, 
And  better  luck  may  come  the  second  time  ; 
What  though  some  churls  of  doubtful  sense 

declare 

That  poison  lurks  in  her  commercial  air, 
Her  buds  of  genius  dying1  premature, 
From  some  malaria  draining'  cannot  cure  ; 
Nay,  that  so  dangerous  is  her  golden  soil, 
Whate'er  she  borrows  she  contrives  to  spoil ; 
That  drooping  minstrels  in  a  few  brief  years 
Lose  their  sweet  voice,  the  gift  of  other  spheres  ; 
That  wafted  singing  from  their  native  shore, 
The}'   touch   the   Battery,    and   are   heard    no 

more  ;  — 
By  those  twinned  waves  that  wear  the  varied 

gleams 

Beryl  or  sapphire  mingles  in  their  streams, 
Till  the  fair  sisters  o'er  her  yellow  sands, 
Clasping  their  soft  and  snowy  ruffled  hands, 
Lay  on  her  footstool  with  their  silver  keys 
Strength   from   the   mountains,    freedom  from 

the  seas,  — 

Some  future  day  may  see  her  rise  sublime 
Above  her  counters,  — only  give  her  time  ! 

When  our  first  Soldiers'  swords  of  honor  gild 
The  stately  mansions  that  her  tradesmen  build  ; 
When  our  first  Statesmen  take  the  Broadway 

track, 

Our  first  Historians  following  at  their  back  ; 
When  our  first  Painters,  dying,  leave  behind 
On  her  proud  walls  the  shadows  of  their  mind  ; 
When  our  first  Poets  flock  from  farthest  scenes 
To  take  in  hand  her  pictured  Magazines  ; 
When  our  first  Scholars  are  content  to  dwell 
Where  their  own  printers  teach  them  how  to 

spell  ; 
When  world-known  Science  crowds  toward  her 

gates, 

Then  shall  the  children  of  our  hundred  States 
Hail  her  a  true  METROPOLIS  of  men, 
The  nation's  centre.     Then,  and  not  till  then  ! 


The  song  is  failing.     Yonder  clanging  tower 
Shakes   in   its   cup   the   more   than    brimming 

hour ; 

The  full-length  gallery  which  the  fates  deny, 
A  colored  Moral  briefly  must  supply. 

JHere  appears  THE  MIND'S   DIET,  ante  p. 
85.] 

The  song  is  passing.  _  Let  its  meaning  rise 
To  loftier  notes  before  its  echo  dies, 
Nor  leave,  ungracious,  in  its  parting  train 
A  trivial  flourish  or  discordant  strain. 

These  lines  may  teach,  rough-spoken  though 

they  be, 

Thy  gentle  creed,  divinest  Charity  ! 
Truth  is  at  heart  not  always  as  she  seems, 
Judged  by  our  sleeping  or  our  waking  dreams. 


[Here  appears  OUR  LIMITATIONS,  ante  p.  85.] 

The  song  is  hushed.     Another  moment  parts 
This  breathing  zone,  this  belt  of  living  hearts  ; 
Ah,  think  not  thus  the  parting  moment  ends 
The  soul's  embrace  of  new  discovered  friends. 

Sleep  on  my  heart,  thou  long  expected  hour, 
Time's  new-born  daughter,  with   thine   infant 

dower, 

One  sad,  sweet  look  from  those  expiring  charms 
The  clasping  centuries  strangle  in  their  arms, 
Dreams  of  old  halls,  and  shadowy  arches  green, 
And  kindly  faces  loved  as  soon  as  seen  ! 
Sleep,  till  the  fires  of  manhood  fade  away, 
The  sprinkled  locks  have  saddened  into  gray, 
And  age,  oblivious,  blends  thy  memories  old 
With  hoary  legends  that  his  sire  has  told  ! 


III.  NOTES    AND    ADDENDA 

Page  (!.  Or  gaze  upon  i/on  pillared  stone. 
The  tomb  of  the  Vassall  family  is  marked  by 
a  freestone  tablet,  supported  by  five  pillars,  and 
bearing  nothing  but  the  sculptured  reliefs  of 
the  Goblet  and  the  Situ, —  |"a,s'-*So/  —  which 
designated  a  powerful  family,  now  almost  for 
gotten. 

The  exile  referred  to  in  the  next  stanza  was  a 
native  of  Honfleur  in  Normandy- 
Page  1").     POKTUY. 

[On    publishing   this  poem  in  the  edition  of 
;    1<S.'!(),  Dr.  Holmes  wrote  as  follows  in  the.  Pre 
face  :\     The  first  poem  in   the  collection  being 
I    somewhat  discursive,  I  will  point  out,  in  a  few 
j    words,  its  scope  and  connection.     Its  object  is 
to  express  some  general  truths  on  the  sources 
^    and  the  machinery  of  poetry  ;  to  sketch  some 
i    changes  which  may  be  supposed  to  have  taken 
!    place   in    its   history,    constituting   four  grand 
j    eras;  and  to  point  out  some  less  obvious  mani 
festations  of  the  poetical  principle.     The  stages 
assigned  to  the  progress  of  poetry  are  as   fol 
lows  :  — 

I.  The   period   of  Pastoral  and  Descriptive 
Poetry  ;  which  allowed  a  digression  upon  home, 
and  the  introduction  of  a  descriptive  lyric. 

II.  The  period  of   Martial  Poetry.     At  the 
close  of  this  division  are  some  remarks  on  our 
want  of   a  national   song,   and   an   attempt   is 
made   to   enliven   the   poem  by  introducing   a 

j  lyric  which  deals  in  martial  images  and  lan 
guage,  although  written  only  for  an  occasional 
purpose. 

III.  The  Epic  or  Historic  period  of  Poetry. 
Under  this  division  of  the  subject,  the  supposed 
necessity  of  an  American  Iliad  was  naturally 
enough  touched  upon. 

IV.  The  period  of  Dramatic  Poetry,  or  that 
which  analyzes,  and  traces  from  their  origin, 
the   passions   excited   by  certain  combinations 
of  circtmistances.     As  this  seemed  the  highest 
reach  of  poetical  art,  so  it  constitutes  the  last  of 
my  supposed  epochs. 

The  remarks  contained  in  the  last  division  re 
late  to  some  of  the  different  forms  in  which 


338 


APPENDIX 


poetry  has  manifested  itself,  and  to  a  pseudo- 
poetical  race  of  invalids,  whose  melancholic 
notions  are  due,  much  oftener  than  is  supposed, 
to  the  existence  of  pulmonary  disease,  fre 
quently  attributed  to  the  morbid  state  of  mind 
of  which  it  is  principally  the  cause.  The  allu 
sions  introduced  at  the  close  will  carry  their 
own  explanation  to  all  for  whom  they  were  in 
tended.  I  have  thus  given  a  general  analysis 
of  a  poem,  which,  being  written  for  public  de 
livery,  required  more  variety  than  is  commonly 
demanded  in  metrical  essays. 

Page  15.     Scenes  of  my  youth. 

This  poem  was  commenced  a  few  months 
subsequently  to  the  author's  return  to  his  na 
tive  village,  after  an  absence  of  nearly  three 
years. 

Page  18.  Gleams  like  a  diamond  on  a  dancing 
girl. 

A  few  lines,  perhaps  deficient  in  dignity,  were 
introduced  at  this  point,  in  delivering  the  poem, 
and  are  appended  in  this  clandestine  manner 
for  the  gratification  of  some  of  my  audience. 

How  many  a  stanza,  blushing  like  the  rose, 
Would  turn  to  fustian  if  resolved  to  prose  ! 
How  many  an  epic,  like  a  gilded  crown, 
If  some  bold  critic  dared  to  melt  it  down, 
Roll  in  his  crucible  a  shapeless  mass, 
A  grain  of  gold-leaf  to  a  pound  of  brass ! 
Shorn  of  their  plumes,  our  moonstruck  son 
neteers 
Would  seem  but    jackdaws    croaking  to  the 

spheres ; 

Our  gay  Lotharios,  with  their  Byron  curls, 
Would  pine  like  oysters  cheated  of  their  pearls ! 

Woe  to  the  spectres  of  Parnassus'  shade, 
If  truth  should  mingle  in  the  masquerade. 
Lo,  as  the  songster's  pale  creations  pass, 
Off  come  at  once  the  tk  Dearest "  and  "  Alas  !  " 
Crack  go  the  lines  and  levers  used  to  prop 
Top-heavy  thoughts,  and  down  at  once  they 

drop. 
Flowers  wreep  for  hours ;  Love,  shrieking  for 

his  dove, 

Finds  not  the  solace  that  he  seeks  —  above. 
Fast  in  the  mire,  through  which  in  happier 

time 

He  ambled  dryshod  on  the  stilts  of  rhyme, 
The  prostrate  poet  finds  at  length  a  tongue 
To  curse  in  prose  the  thankless  stars  he  sung. 

And  though,  perchance,  the  haughty  muse  it 

shames, 

How  deep  the  magic  of  harmonious  names  ! 
How  sure  the  story  of  romance  to  please, 
Whose  rounded  stanza  ends  with  Heloise  ! 
How  rich  and  full  our  intonations  ride 
"  On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side  "  ! 
But    were    her   name    some    vulgar    "  proper 

noun," 

And  Pambamarca  changed  to  Belchertown, 
She  might  be  pilloried  for  her  doubtful  fame, 
And  no  enthusiast  would  arise  to  blame; 
And  he  who  outraged  the  poetic  sense, 
Might  find  a  home  at  Belchertown's  expense  ! 


The  harmless   boys,   scarce    knowing    right 

from  wrong, 

Who  libel  others  and  themselves  in  song, 
When  their  first  pothooks  of  poetic  rage 
Slant  down  the  corners  of  an  album's  page, 
(Where  crippled  couplets  spread  their  sprawl 
ing  charms, 
As  half-taught  swimmers  move  their  legs  and 

arms,) 

Will  talk  of  "Hesper  on  the  brow  of  eve," 
And  call  their  cousins  u  lovely  Genevieve  ;  " 
While  thus  transformed,   each  dear  deluded 

maid, 

Pleased  with  herself  in  novel  grace  arrayed, 
Smiles  on  the  Paris  who  has  come  to  crown 
This  newborn  Helen  in  a  gingham  gown  I 

Page  19.     The  leaflets  gathered  at  your  side. 

See  THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD,  page  5. 

Page  20.  Swept  through  the  world  the  war-song 
of  Marseilles. 

The  music  and  words  of  the  Marseilles  Hymn 
were  composed  in  one  night. 

Page  20.  Our  nation's  anthem  pipes  a  country 
dance  ! 

The  popular  air  of  "Yankee  Doodle,"  like 
the  dagger  of  Hudibras,  serves  a  pacific  as  well 
as  a  martial  purpose. 

Page  21.  Thus  mocked  the  spoilers  with  his 
school-boy  scorn. 

See  OLD  IRONSIDES,  page  3. 

Page  22.  On  other  shores,  above  their  moulder 
ing  towns. 

Daniel  Webster  quoted  several  of  the  verses 
which  follow,  in  his  address  at  the  laying  of  the 
corner-stone  of  the  addition  to  the  Capitol  at 
Washington,  July  4,  1851. 

Page  22.  Bore  Ever  Ready,  faithful  to  the 
last. 

"  Semper  paratus" — a  motto  of  the  revolu 
tionary  standards. 

Page  24.     Thou  calm,  chaste  scholar. 

Charles  Chauncy  Emerson ;  died  May  9, 
1836. 

Page  24.     And  thou,  dear  friend. 

James  Jackson,  Jr.,  M.  D.  ;  died  March  29, 

is:^. 

Page  28.    THE  STEAMBOAT. 

Mr.  Emerson  has  quoted  some  lines  from  this 
poem,  but  somewhat  disguised  as  he  recalled 
them.  It  is  never  safe  to  quote  poetry  without 
referring  to  the  original. 

Page  44.  As  Wesley  questioned  in  his  youthful 
dream. 

Oiij  irep  <pv\\'j)V  •yei'eij,  TOtrjSe  \ai  arSpuv. 

Iliad,  VI.  14G. 

Wesley  quotes  this  line  in  his  account  of  his 
early  doubts  and  perplexities.    See  Southey's 
Life  of  Wesley,  Vol.  II.,  p.  185. 
Page  46.     It  tells  the  turret. 
The  churches  referred  to  in  the  lines  which 
follow  are 

1.  "  King's  Chapel,"  the  foundation  of  which 
was  laid  by  Governor  Shirley  in  1749. 

2.  Brattle  Street  Church,  consecrated  in  177". 
The  completion  of  this  edifice,  the  design  of 
which  included  a  spire,  was  prevented  by  the 


NOTES    AND   ADDENDA 


troubles  of  the  Revolution,  and  its  plain,  square 
tower  presented  nothing  more  attractive  than  a 
massive  simplicity.  In  the  front  of  this  tower, 
till  the  church  was  demolished  in  1<S72,  there 
was  to  he  seen,  half  embedded  in  the  brick-A\  ork, 
a  cannon-ball,  which  was  thrown  from  the 
American  fortifications  at  Cambridge,  during 
the  bombardment  of  the  city,  then  occupied  by 
the  British  troops. 

o.  The  Old  South,  first  occupied  for  public 
worship  in  IT'So. 

4.  Park  Street  Church,  built  in  1SOP,  the  tall 
white  steeple  of  which  is  the  most  conspicuous 
of  all  the  Boston  spires. 

5.  Christ  Church,  opened  for  public  worship 
in  17--!,  and  containing  a  set  of  eight  bells,  long 
the  only  chime  in  Boston. 

Page  54.  The  Anqel  spake  :  This  threefold  hill 
sha/l  be. 

The  name  first  given  by  the  English  to  Boston 
was  TRI-MOUNTAIK.  The  three  hills  upon  and 
around  which  the  city  is  built  are  Beacon  Hill, 
Fort  Hill,  and  Copp's  Hill. 

In  the  early  records  of  the  Colony,  it  is  men 
tioned,  under  date  of  May  15th,  1(5X5,  that  "A    | 
BEACON  is  to  be  set  on  the  Sentry  hill,  at  Boston, 
to  give  notice  to  the  country  of  any  danger;  to    \ 
he  guarded  by  one  man  stationed  near,  and  fired    1 
as   occasion   may   be/'      The   last   beacon  was 
blown  down  in  17<s!>. 

The  eastern  side  of  Fort  Hill  was  formerly 
"  a  ragged  cliff,  that  seemed  placed  by  nature 
in  front  of  the  entrance  to  tin.1  harbor  for  the 
purposes  of  defence,  to  which  it  was  very  soon 
applied,  and  from  which  it  obtained  its  present 
name."  Its  summit  is  now  a  beautiful  green 
enclosure. 

Copp's  Hill  was  used  as  a  burial-ground  from 
a  very  early  period.     The  part  of  it  employed 
for  this  purpose  slopes  towards  the  water  upon    ', 
the  northern  side.     From  its  many  interesting    | 
records  of  the  dead  I  select  the  following,  which    J 
may  serve  to  show  what  kind  of  dust  it  holds. 

kt  Here  lies  buried  in  a 

Stone  Grave  10  feet  deep 

Capt.  DANIEL  MALCOLM  Mercht 

who  departed  this  Life 

October  L'od,  17W, 

Aged  44  years, 

a  true  son  of  Liberty, 

a  Friend  to  the  Publick, 

an  Enemy  to  oppression, 

and  one  of  the  foremost 

in  opposing  the  Revenue  Acts 

on  America." 

The  gravestone  from  which  I  copied  this  in 
scription  is  bruised  and  splintered  by  the  bullets 
of  the  British  soldiers. 

Page  79.    THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

[The  following  is  the  Report  referred  to  in 
the  head-note  as  furnished  by  Dr.  Holmes,  in 
his  capacity  as  chairman  of  the  committee.] 

The  committee  on  the  ploughing-match  are 
fully  sensible  of  the  dignity  and  importance  of 
the  office  entrusted  to  their  judgment.  To  de 
cide  upon  the  comparative  merits  of  so  many 


excellent  specimens  of  agricultural  art  is  a  most 
delicate,  responsible,  and  honorable  duty. 

The  plough  is  a  very  ancient  implement.  It 
is  written  in  the  English  language  p-1-o-u-g-h, 
and,  by  the  association  of  free  and  independent 
spellers,  p-l-o-w.  It  may  be  remarked  that  the 
same  gentlemen  can,  by  a  similar  process,  turn 
their  coughs  into  cows  ;  which  would  be  the 
cheapest  mode  of  raising  live  stock,  although  it 
is  to  be  feared  that,  they  (referring  to  the  cows) 
would  prove  but  low-bred  animals.  Some  have 
derived  the  English  word  plough  from  the 
Greek  ploutos,  the  wealth  which  conies  from  the 
former  suggesting  its  resemblance  to  the  latter. 
But  such  resemblances  between  different  lan 
guages  may  be  carried  too  far :  as  for  exam 
ple,  if  a  man  should  trace  the  name  of  the  Al- 
tamaha  to  the  circumstance  that  the  first  set 
tlers  were  all  tomahawked  on  the  margin  of 
that  river. 

Time  and  experience  have  sanctioned  the 
custom  of  putting  only  plain,  practical  men 
upon  this  committee.  Wen:  it  not  so,  the  most 
awkward  blunders  would  be  constantly  occur 
ring.  The  inhabitants  of  our  cities,  who  visit 
the  country  during  the  fine  season,  would  find 
themselves  quite  at  a  loss  if  an  overstrained 
politeness  should  place  them  in  ibis  position. 
Imagine  a  trader,  or  a  professional  man,  from 
the  capital  of  the  State,  unexpectedly  called 
upon  (o  act  in  rural  matters.  Plough-shares  are 
to  him  shares  that  pay  no  dividends.  A  coulter, 
he  supposes,  has  something  to  do  with  a  horse. 
His  notions  of  stock  were  obtained  in  Faneuil 
Hall  market,  where  the  cattle  looked  funnily 
enough,  to  be  sure,  compared  with  the  living 
originals.  lie  knows,  it  is  true,  lhat.  there  is 
a  difference  in  cattle,  and  would  tell  you  that 
he  prefers  the  sirloin  breed.  His  children  are 
equally  unenlightened  ;  they  know  no  more  of 
the  poultry-yard  than  what  they  have  learned 
by  having  the  chicken-pox,  and  playing  on  a 
Turkey  carpet.  Their  small  knowledge  of 
wool-growing  is  lam(b)entable. 

The  history  of  one  of  these  summer-visitors 
shows  how  imperfect  is  his  rural  education. 
He  no  sooner  establishes  himself  in  the  country 
than  he  begins  a  series  of  experiments.  He 
tries  to  drain  a  marsh,  but  only  succeeds  in 
draining  his  own  pockets.  He  offers  to  pay  for 
carting  off  a  compost  heap  ;  but  is  informed  that 
it  consists  of  corn  and  potatoes  in  an  unfinished 
state.  He  sows  abundantly,  but  reaps  little  or 
nothing,  except  with  the  implement  which  he 
uses  in  shaving  ;  a  process  which  is  frequently 
performed  for  him  by  other  people,  though  he 
pays  no  barber's  bill.  He  builds  a  wire-fence 
and  paints  it  green,  so  that  nobody  can  see  it. 
But  he  forgets  to  order  a  pair  of  spectacles 
apiece  for  his  cows,  who,  taking  offence  at  some 
thing  else,  take  his  fence  in  addition,  and  make 
an  invisible  one  of  it  sure  enough.  And,  finally, 
having  bought  a  machine  to  chop  fodder,  which 
chops  off  a  good  slice  of  his  dividends,  and  two 
or  three  children's  fingers,  he  concludes  that, 
instead  of  cutting  feed,  he  will  cut  farming  ; 
and  so  sells  out  to  one  of  those  plain,  practical 


340 


APPENDIX 


farmers,  such  as  you  have  honored  by  placing 
them  on  your  committee  :  whose  pockets  are 
not  so  full  when  he  starts,  but  have  fewer  holes 
and  not  so  many  fingers  in  them. 

It  must  have  been  one  of  these  practical  men 
whose  love  of  his  pursuits  led  him  to  send  in  to 
the  committee  the  following  lines,  which  it  is 
hoped  will  be  accepted  as  a  grateful  tribute  to 
the  noble  art  whose  successful  champions  are 
now  to  be  named  and  rewarded. 
Page  99.  THE  Two  STREAMS. 
When  a  little  poem  called  The  Two  Streams 
was  first  printed,  a  writer  in  the  New  York 
Evening  Post  virtually  accused  the  author  of  it 
of  borrowing  the  thought  from  a  baccalaureate 
sermon  of  President  Hopkins  of  Williamstown, 
and  printed  a  quotation  from  that  discourse, 
which,  as  I  thought,  a  thief  or  catchpoll  might 
well  consider  as  establishing  a  fair  presumption 
that  it  was  so  borrowed.  I  was  at  the  same 
time  wholly  unconscious  of  having  met  with 
the  discourse  or  the  sentence  which  the  verses 
were  most  like,  nor  do  I  believe  I  ever  had  seen 
or  heard  either.  Some  time  after  this,  happen 
ing  to  meet  my  eloquent  cousin,  Wendell  Phil 
lips,  I  mentioned  the  fact  to  him,  and  he  told 
me  that  he  had  once  used  the  special  image  said 
to  be  borrowed,  in  a  discourse  delivered  at  Wil 
liamstown.  On  relating  this  to  my  friend  Mr. 
Buchanan  Read,  he  informed  me  that  he  too 
had  used  the  image,  — perhaps  referring  to  his 
poem  called  The  Twins.  He  thought  Tennyson 
had  used  it  also.  The  parting  of  the  streams 
on  the  Alps  is  poetically  elaborated  in  a  passage 
attributed  to  "M.  Lpisne,"  printed  in  the  Bos 
ton  Evening  Transcript  for  Oct.  23,  1859.  Cap 
tain,  afterwards  Sir  Francis  Head,  speaks  of 
the  showers  parting  on  the  Cordilleras,  one  por 
tion  going  to  the  Atlantic,  one  to  the  Pacific. 
I  found  the  image  running  loose  in  my  mind, 
without  a  halter.  It  suggested  itself  as  an  illus 
tration  of  the  will,  and  I  worked  the  poem  out 
by  the  aid  of  Mitchell's  School  Atlas.  The 
spores  of  a  great  many  ideas  are  floating  about 
in  the  atmosphere.  We  no  more  know  where 
the  lichens  which  eat  the  names  off  from  the 
gravestones  borrowed  the  germs  that  gave  them 
birth.  The  two  match-boxes  were  just  alike  ; 
but  neither  was  a  plagiarism.  —  My  Hunt  after 
"the  Captain,"  pp.  4">,  4(!. 
Page  110.  INTERNATIONAL  ODE. 
This  ode  was  sung  in  unison  by  twelve  hun 
dred  children  of  the  public  schools,  to  the  air 
of  "  God  save  the  Queen,"  at  the  visit  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales  to  Boston,  October  IS,  I860. 
Page  113.  POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29. 
[The  following  is  a  roll-call  of  this  celebrated 
class  in  Harvard  College.] 

Joseph  Angier 

Elbridge  (Jerry  Austin 

Reuben  Bates 

George  Tyler  Bigelow 

William  Brigham 

John  Parker  Bullard 

William  Henry  Channing 

James  Freeman  Clarke 

Edwin  Conaut 


Frederick  William  Crocker 

Francis  Boardman  Crowninshield 

Edward  Linzee  Cunningham 

Benjamin  Robbiiis  Curtis 

Curtis  Cutler 

George  Thomas  Davis 

Jonathan  Thomas  Davis 

Nathaniel  Foster  Derby 

Samuel  Adams  Devens 

George  Humphrey  Devereux 

Nicholas  Devereux 

Charles  Fay 

William  Emerson  Foster 

Francis  Augustus  Foxcroft 

Joel  Giles 

William  Gray 

Charles  Lowell  Hancock 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

John  Hubbard 

Solomon  Martin  Jenkins 

Albert  Locke 

Josiah  Quincy  Loring 

Samuel  May 

Henry  Blake  McLellan 

Horatio  Cook  Meriam 

Edward  Patrick  Milliken 

William  Mixter 

Isaac  Edward  Morse 

Benjamin  Peirce 

George  William  Phillips 

George  Washington  Richardson 

Andrew  Ritchie 

Chandler  Robbins 

James  Dutton  Russell 

Howard  Sargent 

Samuel  Francis  Smith 

Edward  Dexter  Sohier 

Charles  Storer  Storrow 

George  Augustus  Taylor 

John  James  Taylor 

Francis  Thomas 

James  Thurston 

John  Rogers  Thurston 

Samuel  Ripley  Townsend 

Josiah  Kendall  Waite 

Joshua  Holyoke  Ward 

Ezra  Weston 

James  Humphrey  Wilder 

Benjamin  Pollard  Winslow 

William  Young 
Page  118.    THE  BOYS. 

The  members  of  the  Harvard  College  class  of 
1829  referred  to  in  this  poem  are  :  "  Doctor," 
Francis  Thomas;  ''Judge,"  G.  T.  Bigelow, 
Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Massa 
chusetts  ;  "Speaker,"  Hon.  Francis  B.  Crown 
inshield,  Speaker  of  the  Massachusetts  House 
of  Representatives;  "Mr.  Mayor,"  G.  W. 
Richardson,  of  Worcester,  Mass  ;  "  Member  of 
Congress,"  Hon.  George  T.  Davis ;  "  Rev 
erend,"  James  Freeman  Clarke  ;  "  boy  with  the 
grave  mathematical  look,"  Benjamin  Peirce; 
"  boy  with  a  three-decker  brain,"  Judge 
Benjamin  R.  Curtis,  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
the  United  States  ;  "  nice  youngster  of  excellent 
pith,"  S.  F.  Smith,  author  of  "My  Country, 
't  is  of  Thee." 


A   CHRONOLOGICAL   LIST   OF    DR.    HOLMES'S    POEMS      341 


Page  141.  That  lovely,  bright-eyed  boy. 
William  Watson  Sturgis. 

Who  faced  the  storm  so  long. 
Francis  B.  Crowiiinshield. 

Our  many-featured  friend, 
George  T.  Davis. 

Page  149.    THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

I  have  now  and  then  found  a  naturalist  who 
still  worried  over  the  distinction  between  the 
Pearly  Nautilus  and  the  Paper  Nautilus,  or 
Argonauta.  As  the  stories  about  both  are  mere 
fables,  attaching  to  the  Physalia,  or  Portuguese 
man-of-war,  as  well  as  to  these  two  molluscs,  it 
seems  over-nice  to  quarrel  with  the  poetical 
handling  of  a  fiction  sufficiently  justified  by  the 
name  commonly  applied  to  the  ship  of  pearl  as 
well  as  the  ship  of  paper. 

Page  151.     The  close-clinging  dulcamara. 

The  "bitter-sweet"  of  New  England  is  the 
Celastrus  scandens,  '' bourreau  des  arbres"  of 
the  Canadian  French. 

Page  K54.    ODE  FOR  A  SOCIAL  MEETING. 

I  recollect  a  British  criticism  of  the  poem 
"with  the  slight  alterations,"  in  which  the 
writer  Ayas  quite  indignant  at  the  treatment 
my  convivial  song  had  received.  No  committee, 
he  thought,  would  dare  treat  a  Scotch  author 
in  that  way.  I  could  not  help  being  reminded 
of  Sydney  Smith,  and  the  surgical  operation  he 

1  proposed,  in  order  to  get  a  pleasantry  into  the 
lead  of  a  North  Briton. 
Page  11*2.     All  armed  with  picks  and  spades. 
The  captured  slaves  were  at  this  time  organ 
ized  as  pioneers. 

Page  1!>3.     Father,  send  on  Earth  again. 
[This  hymn  was  sung  to  the  tune  of  "  Silent 
Night,"] 
Page  245.     This  broad-browed  youth. 

Benjamin  Robbins  Curtis. 
The  stripling  smooth  of  face  and  slight. 

George  Tyler  Bigelow. 

Page  270.  PRELUDE  TO  A  VOLUME  PRINTED 
IN  RAISED  LETTERS  FOR  THE  BLIND. 

[This  volume  was  published  in  1S85  from  the 
Howe  Memorial  Press  in  Boston,  the  Prelude 
there  called  Dedication  being  dated  June  15,  of 
that  year.  There  are  ninety-one  poems  in  the 
collection,  and  of  these  the  following  were  des 
ignated  by  Dr.  Holmes,  who  so  far  aided  in 
the  selection :  — 

The  Dorchester  Giant. 

The  September  Gale. 

The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous. 

The  Living  Temple. 

The  Voiceless. 

Martha. 

The  Flower  of  Liberty. 

Union  and  Liberty. 

The  Chambered  Nautilus. 

Sun  and  Shadow. 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece. 

Contentment. 

Under  the  Violets. 

The  Opening  of  the  Piano. 

Bill  and  Joe. 

The  Old  Man  Dreams. 

The  Boys. 


Dorothy  Q. 

The  Organ-Blower. 

Brother  Jonathan's  Lament  for  Sister  Caro 
line. 

Poem  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Halleck  Monu 
ment. 

A  Farewell  to  Agassiz. 

For  the  Moore  Centennial  Celebration. 

A  Familiar  Letter. 

The  Iron  Gate. 

My  Aviary. 

The  Silent  Melody.] 


IV.      A    CHRONOLOGICAL    LIST    OF   DR. 
HOLMES'S   POEMS 

IN  this  list  the  attempt  has  been  made  to  date 
the  poems  either  by  the  occasion  or  by  the  first 
printing  in  periodical  form.  Whenever  the  first 
appearance  of  a  poem  has  been  not  precisely  de 
termined,  the  title  is  printed  in  italic  under 
the  year  when  the  volume  first  including  it  was 
published. 


1S24, 
1830. 


1831. 


1833. 
1836. 


25.     Translation  from  the 

The  Toadstool. 

The  Last  Prophecy  of  Cassandra. 

To  a  Caged  Lion. 

To  My  Companions. 

The  Dorchester  Giant. 

The  Spectre  Pig. 

Reflections  of  a  Proud  Pedestrian. 

The  Mysterious  Visitor. 

The  Meeting  of  the  Dryads. 

Evening,  by  a  Tailor. 

Stanzas  :  "  Strange  !  that  one  lightly  whis 

pered  tone." 

The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous. 
Old  Ironsides. 

The  Ballad  of  the  Oysterman. 
From  a  Bachelor's  Private  Journal. 
Daily  Trials  :  by  a  Sensitive  Man. 
The  Treadmill  Song. 
The  Star  and  the  Water-Lily. 
To  a  Blank  Sheet  of  Paper. 
A  Noontide  Lyric. 
The  Hot  Season. 
To  an  Insect. 
L'Inconnue. 
My  Aunt. 
The  Last  Leaf. 
The  Dilemma. 

The  Philosopher  to  his  Love. 
The  Comet. 
A  Portrait. 

"  The  Wasp  "  and  "  The  Hornet." 
The  Dying  Seneca. 
Poetry  :  A  Metrical  Essay. 
A  Song  for  the  Centennial  Celebration  of 

Harvard  College. 
The  Cambridge  Churchyard. 
To  the  Portrait  of  a  Lady. 
To  the  Portrait  of  a  Gentleman. 
The  Music  Grinders, 


342 


APPENDIX 


The  September  Gale. 

The  Last  Header. 

Illustrations  of  a  Picture. 

A  Roman  Aqueduct. 

La  Grisette. 

Lines  by  a  Clerk. 

The  Poet's  Lot. 

An  Evening  Thought. 

"Qui  Vive?" 

A  Souvenir. 

The  Last  Prophecy  of  Cassandra. 
1838.   The  Only  Daughter. 
1840.   The  Steamboat. 

Departed  Days. 

The  Morning  Visit. 

1842.  Song,  written   for  the  Dinner  given  to 

Charles  Dickens. 
Song  for  a  Temperance  Dinner. 

1843.  Terpsichore  :  an  After-Dinner  Poem. 

1844.  Lines,  recited  at  the  Berkshire  Jubilee. 
Verses  for  After-Dinner. 

1845.  A  Modest  Request. 

184G.   Urania  :  A  Rhymed  Lesson. 

1848.  The  Pilgrim's  Vision. 
Lexington. 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl. 

The  Island  Hunting-Song. 

Nux  Postccenatica. 

The  Parting  Word. 

A  Song  of  Other  Days. 

A  Sentiment. 

The  Stethoscope  Song. 

Extracts  from  a  Medical  Poem. 

1849.  The  Ploughman. 

1850.  Dedication  of  the  Pittsfield  Cemetery. 
Spring. 

The  Study. 
The  Bells. 
Non-Resistance . 
The  Moral  Bully. 
The  Mind's  Diet. 
Our  Limitations. 
1850-1856.    The  Banker's  Secret. 
The  Exile's  Secret. 
The  Lover's  Secret. 
The  Statesman's  Secret. 
The  Secret  of  the  Stars. 

1851.  To  Governor  Swain. 

A  Song  of  "  Twenty-Nine." 

1852.  Questions  and  Answers. 
To  an  English  Friend. 

1853.  A  Poem  for  the  Meeting  of  the  Ameri 

can  Medical  Association. 
After  a  Lecture  on  Wordsworth. 
After  a  Lecture  on  Moore. 
After  a  Lecture  on  Keats. 
After  a  Lecture  on  Shelley. 
At  the  Close  of  a  Course  of  Lectures. 
An  Impromptu. 

1854.  The  New  Eden. 
The  Hudson. 

The  Old  Man  Dreams. 
Semi-Centennial  Celebration  of  the  New 
England  Society. 

1855.  A  Sentiment. 

Farewell :  to  J.  R.  Lowell. 
Remember  —  Forget. 


1856.  For  the  Meeting  of  the  Burns  Club. 
Birthday  of  Daniel  Webster. 

Ode  for  Washington's  Birthday. 
Our  Indian  Summer. 

1857.  Album  Verses. 
Latter-Day  Warnings. 

A  Parting  Health :  to  J.  L.  Motley. 
Sun  and  Shadow. 
Prologue. 

Ode  for  a  Social  Meeting. 
Meeting  of  the  Alumni  of  Harvard  Col 
lege. 
The  Parting  Song. 

1858.  Mare  Rubrum. 

The  Chambered  Nautilus. 

What  We  all  think. 

The  Last  Blossom. 

The  Living  Temple. 

Spring  has  come. 

A  Good  Time  Going. 

The  Two  Armies. 

Musa. 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece. 

^Estivation. 

Contentment. 

Prelude. 

Parson  Turell's  Legacy. 

The  Voiceless. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea. 

The  Last  Look. 

Avis. 

1859.  DeSauty. 

For  the  Burns'  Centennial  Celebration. 

The  Boys. 

The  Opening  of  the  Piano. 

The  Promise. 

At  a  Birthday  Festival. 

The  Crooked  Footpath. 

The  Mother's  Secret. 

The  Two  Streams. 

Robinson  of  Leyden. 

St.  Anthony  the  Reformer. 

At  a  Meeting  of  Friends. 

Midsummer. 

Iris,  Her  Book. 

Under  the  Violets. 

Hymn  of  Trust. 

Boston  Common  :  Three  Pictures. 

A  Sun-Day  Hymn. 

The  Gray  Chief. 

1860.  In     Memory     of     Charles     Wentworth 

Uphara,  Jr. 
For  the  Meeting  of  the  National  Sanitary 

Association. 
International  Ode. 
Lines. 

1861.  A  Voice  of  the  Loyal  North. 

Brother  Jonathan's  Lament  for    Sister 

Caroline. 

Prologue  to  Songs  in  Many  Keys. 
Agnes. 
Martha. 

Vive  La  France. 
Army  Hymn. 
Parting  Hymn. 
The  Flower  of  Liberty. 
Union  and  Liberty. 


A   CHRONOLOGICAL   LIST   OF   DR.    HOLMES'S    POEMS      343 


Under  the  Washington  Elm,  Cambridge. 
The  Sweet  Little  Man. 
Union  and  Liberty. 
The  Old  Player. 
The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea. 
18(52.    To  My  Readers. 
J.  D.  K. 

Voyage  of  the  Good  Ship  Union. 
To  Canaan  :  a  Puritan  War-Song. 
"  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  I  offer  thee  three 

tilings." 
Never  or  Now. 

1863.  ' '  Choose  you    this    day  whom    ye  will 

serve.'' 
An  Impromptu  at  the  Walcker  Dinner. 

1864.  F.   W.   C. 

The  Last  Charge. 

Shakespeare. 

In  Memory  of  John  and  Robert  Ware. 

Hymn  written  for  the  Great  Central  Fair. 

Bryant's  Seventieth  Birthday. 

A  Sea  Dialogue. 

1865.  Hymn  after  the  Emancipation  Proclama 

tion. 

Edward  Everett. 

Our  Oldest  Friend. 

Sherman  's  in  Savannah. 

One  Country. 

God  save  the  Flag. 

Hymn  for  the  Fair  at  Chicago. 

A  Farewell  to  Agassiz. 

For  the  Services  in  Memory  of  Abraham 
Lincoln. 

At  a  Dinner  to  Admiral  Farragut. 

At  a  Dinner  to  General  Grant. 

For  the  Commemoration  Services,  Cam 
bridge. 

No  Time  Like  the  Old  Time. 

1866.  My  Annual. 
America  to  Russia. 
To  George  Peabody. 

1867.  All  Here. 

Chanson  Without  Music. 

1868.  Bill  and  Joe. 
Once  More. 

At  the  Banquet  to  the  Chinese  Embass 

To  H.  W.  Longfellow. 

To  Christian  Gottfried  Ehrenberg. 

1869.  The  Old  Cruiser. 

Hymn  for  the  Class  Meeting. 

Humboldt's  Birthday. 

Poem  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Halleck 

Monument. 
A  Hymn  of  Peace. 

1870.  Rip  Van  Winkle. 
Even-Song. 

Nearing  the  Snow-Line. 

Hymn  for  the  Celebration  at  the  Laying 
of  the  Corner-Stone  of  Harvard  Memo 
rial  Hall. 

1871.  The  Smiling  Listener. 
Dorothy  Q. 

Welcome  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis. 
At  the    Banquet    to    the   Grand  Duke 
Alexis. 

1872.  Homesick  in  Heaven. 
Fantasia. 


Aunt  Tabitha. 

Our  Sweet  Singer. 

Wind-Clouds  and  Star-Drifts. 

At  the  Banquet  to  the  Japanese  Embassy. 

Epilogue  to  the  Breakfast-Table  Series. 

The  Organ-Blower. 

After  the  Fire. 

1873.  H.  C.  M.,  H.  S.,  J.  K.  W. 
What  I  have  come  for. 

Address  for  the  Opening  of  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Theatre. 

For  the  Centennial  Dinner  of  the  Propri 
etors  of  Boston  Pier. 

A  Poem  served  to  Order. 

The  Fountain  of  Youth. 

1874.  Our  Banker. 
Opening  the  Window. 
Programme. 

An  Old- Year  Song. 

At  the  Pantomime. 

A  Ballad  of  the  Boston  Tea-Party. 

A  Toast  to  Wilkie  Collins. 

Hymn  for  the    Dedication  of  Memorial 

Hall  at  Cambridge. 
Hymn  at  the  Funeral  Services  of  Charles 

Simmer. 

At  the  "Atlantic"  Dinner. 
187o.    For  Class  Meeting. 

Grandmother's     Story    of     Bunker-Hill 

Battle. 
Lucy. 
Hymn  for  the  Inauguration  of  the  Statue 

of  Governor  Andrew. 
Joseph  Warren,  M.  D. 
Old  Cambridge. 

1876.  A  Familiar  Letter. 
Ad  Amicos. 

A  Memorial  Tribute  :  S.  G.  Howe. 

Welcome  to  the  Nations. 

Unsatisfied. 

How  the  Old  Horse  won  the  Bet. 

1877.  How  not  to  settle  it. 
The  First  Fan. 

To  Rutherford  Birchard  Hayes. 

The  Ship  of  State. 

A  Family  Record. 

For  Whittier's  Seventieth  Birthday. 

An  Appeal  for  "  The  Old  South." 

1878.  My  Aviary. 

Two  Sonnets :  Harvard. 
The  Last  Survivor. 
The  School-Boy. 
The  Silent  Melody. 

1879.  The  Archbishop  and  Gil  Bias. 
Vestigia  Quinque  Retrorsum. 
The  Iron  Gate. 

In  Response. 

For  the  Moore  Centennial  Celebration. 

1880.  The  Shadows^ 
The  Coming  Era. 

To  James  Freeman  Clarke. 

Welcome  to  the  Chicago  Commercial 
Club. 

American  Academy  Centennial  Celebra 
tion. 

Our  Home  —  Our  Country. 

1881.  Benjamin  Peirce. 


344 


APPENDIX 


Poem  at  the  Centennial  Anniversary 
Dinner  of  the  Massachusetts  Medical 
Society. 

Post-Prandial,  *  B  K. 

Rhymes  of  a  Life-Time. 

Boston  to  Florence. 

On  the  Death  of  President  Garfield. 

On  the  Threshold. 

At  the  Papyrus  Club. 

1882.  In  the  Twilight. 
Our  Dead  Singer. 

Two  Poems  to  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 
At  the  Unitarian  Festival. 
The  Flaneur. 

1883.  Poem   read  at  the  Dinner  given  to  the 

Author  by  the  Medical  Profession  of  the 
City  of  New  York. 

A  Loving-Cup  Song. 

King's  Chapel. 

Hymn  for  the  Two  Hundredth  Anni 
versary  of  King's  Chapel. 

1884.  The  Girdle  of  Friendship. 
At  the  Saturday  Club. 
Ave. 

1885.  The  Lyre  of  Anacreon. 

A  Welcome  to  Dr.  Benjamin  Apthorp 

Gould. 

To  Frederick  Henry  Hedge. 
To  James  Russell  Lowell. 
To  the  Poets  who  only  read  and  listen. 
Prelude  to  a  Volume  printed  in  Raised 

Letters  for  the  Blind. 

1886.  The  Old  Tune. 

Poem  for  the  Two  Hundred  and  Fiftieth 
Anniversary  of  the  Founding  of  Har 
vard  College. 

Hymn  —  The  Word  of  Promise. 


1887.  The  Broken  Circle. 

To  John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

Hymn  read  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Oliver 

Wendell  Holmes  Hospital. 
Additional  Verses  to  Hail  Columbia. 
Poem  for  the  Dedication  of  the  Fountain 

at  Stratford-on-Avon. 

1888.  The  Angel-Thief. 
At  My  Fireside. 

For  the  Dedication  of  the  New  City  Li 
brary,  Boston. 
The  Golden  Flower. 

1889.  After  the  Curfew. 

To  James  Russell  Lowell. 
To  the  Eleven  Ladies. 

1890.  But  One  Talent. 

The  Peau  de  Chagrin  of  State  Street. 

Cacoethes  Scribendi. 

The  Rose  and  the  Fern. 

I  like  you  and  I  love  you. 

La  Maison  D'Or. 

Too  Young  for  Love. 

The  Broomstick  Train. 

Tartarus. 

At  the  Turn  of  the  Road. 

Invita  Minerva. 

1891.  For  the  Window  in  St.  Margaret's. 
James  Russell  Lowell. 

To  My  Old  Readers. 

Readings  Over  the  Teacups,  Connecting 


1892.  In  Memory  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

1893.  To  the  Teachers  of  America. 

Hymn  for  the  Twenty-fifth  Anniversary 
of  the  Boston  Young  Men's  Christian 
Union. 

Francis  Parkman. 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


A  crazy  bookcase,  placed  before,  183. 

A  health  to  dear  woman  !  She  bids  us  un 
twine,  42. 

A  health  to  him  whose  double  wreath  displays, 
293. 

A  lovely  show  for  eyes  to  see,  249. 

A  prologue  ?  Well,  of  course  the  ladies  know, 
153. 

A  sick  man's  chamber,  though  it  often  boast, 
58. 

A  still,  sweet,  placid,  moonlight  face,  331. 

A  triple  health  to  Friendship,  Science,  Art,  03. 

Afar  he  sleeps  whose  name  is  graven  here,  290. 

Ah  Clemence  !  when  I  saw  thee  last,  32)5. 

Ah,  here  it  is  !  the  sliding  rail,  1(54. 

All  overgrown  with  bush  and  fern,  100. 

Alone,  beneath  the  darkened  sky,  2(50. 

Alone  !  no  climber  of  an  Alpine  cliff,  175. 

An  usher  standing  at  the  door,  240. 

And  can  it  be  you  've  found  a  place,  231. 

And  what  shall  be  the  song  to-night,  110. 

Angel  of  Death  !  extend  thy  silent  reign  !  87. 

Angel  of  love,  for  every  grief,  288. 

Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  wandered  too  long ! 

Another  clouded  night  ;  the  stars  are  hid,  171. 
As   I   look   from   the   isle,  o'er   its   billows   of 

green,  150. 

As  Life's  unending  column  pours,  50. 
As  o'er  the  glacier's  frozen  sheet,  41. 
As  the  voice  of  the  watch  to  the  mariner's 

dream,  03. 

As  through  the  forest,  disarrayed,  180. 
Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  !  4. 

Bankrupt !  our  pockets  inside  out  !  240. 

Behold  —  not  him  we  knew  !  103. 

Behold  the  rocky  wall,  100. 

Behold  the  shape  our  eyes  have  known  !  220. 

Brave  singer  of  the  coming  time,  155. 

Brief  glimpses  of  the  bright  celestial  spheres, 

172. 

Bright  on  the  banners  of  lily  and  rose,  232. 
"  Bring  me  my  broken  harp,"  he  said,  203. 
Brothers,  whom  we  may  not  reach,  200. 
But  what  is  this  ?  181. 

Changeless  in  beaiity,  rose-hues  on  her  cheek, 

2G8. 
Chicago  sounds  rough  to  the  maker  of  verse, 

255. 
Clear  the   brown  path,  to  meet  his  coulter's 

gleam  !  70. 
Come  back  to  your  mother,  ye   children,  for 

shame,  34. 


Come,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I,  113. 
Come  !  rill  a  fresh  bumper,  for  why  should  we 

go,  102. 

Come,  heap  the  fagots  !     Ere  we  go,  145. 
Come,  spread   your  wings,   as  I  spread   mine, 

00. 

Day  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around,  0. 

Dear  friends,  left  darkling  in  the  long  eclipse, 
270. 

Dear  friends,  we  are  strangers  ;  we  never  be 
fore,  220. 

Dear  Governor,  if  my  skiff  might  brave,  80. 

Dearest,  a  look  is  but  a  ray,  328. 

Devoutest  of  my  Sunday  friends,  187. 

Do  you  know  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  of  the 
Sea?  100. 

Eighty  years  have  passed,  and  more,  105. 
Enchanter  of  Erin,  whose  magic  has  bound  us, 

253. 
Ere  yet  the  warning  chimes  of  midnight  sound, 

213, 

Facts  respecting  an  old  arm-chair,  1(50. 
Fallen  with  autumn's  falling  leaf,  28'. ». 
Farewell,  for  the  bark  has  her  breast  to  the 

tide,  07. 

Fast  as  the  rolling  seasons  bring,  122. 
Father  of  Mercies,  Heavenly  Friend,  10(5. 
Father,  send  on  Earth  again,  103. 
Fit  emblem  for  the  altar's  side,  274. 
Flag  of  the  heroes  who  left  us  their  glory,  108. 
Flash  out  a  stream  of  blood-red  wine,  117. 
For  him  the  Architect  of  all,  143. 
Four    summers   coined    their  golden    light    in 

leaves,  208. 
Friend,  whom  thy  fourscore  winters  leave  more 

dear,  275. 
Friend,  you  seem  thoughtful.     I  not  wonder 

much,  218. 

From  my  lone  turret  as  I  look  around,  176. 
From  the  first  gleam  of  morning  to  the  gray, 

208. 
From   this  fair  home  behold   on  either  side, 

301. 

Full  sevenscore  years  our  city's  pride,  237. 
Full  well  I  know  the  frozen  hand  has  come, 

286. 

Giver  of  all  that  crowns  our  days,  104. 

Go   seek  thine   earth-born  sisters,  —  thus  the 

Voice,  100. 

j   God  bless  our  Fathers'  Land !  110. 
l    Grandmother's  mother  ;  her  age,  I  guess,  187. 
345 


346 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  stately  tower ! 

210. 
Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the 

boys?  118. 
Have  I  deserved    your   kindness  ?    Nay,    my 

friends,  68. 
Have    you  heard  of    the  wonderful    one-hoss 

shay,  158. 

He  died  not  as  the  martyr  dies,  332. 
He  rests  from  toil ;  the  portals  of  the  tomb,  298. 
He  sleeps  not  here  ;  in  hope  and  prayer,  lb'5. 
He  was  all  sunshine  ;  in  his  face,  103. 
Her  hands  are  cold  ;  her  face  is  white,  163. 
Here  !  sweep  these  foolish  leaves  away,  167. 
Here 's  the  old  cruiser,  'Twenty-nine,  128. 
His  birthday.  —  Nay,  we  need  not  speak,  107. 
How  beauteous  is  the  bond,  300. 
How  long  will  this  harp  which  you  once  loved  to 

hear,  125. 
"  How  many  have  gone  ?  "  was  the  question  of 

old,  142. 
How  sweet  the  sacred  legend  —  if  unblamed, 

317. 

How  the  mountains  talked  together,  203. 
How  to  address  him  ?  awkward,  it  is  true,  239. 

I  am  not  humble  ;  I  was  shown  my  place,  176. 

I  asked  three  little  maidens  who  heard  the  or 
gan  play,  215. 

I  believe  that  the  copies  of  verses  I  've  spun, 
250. 

I  bring  the  simplest  pledge  of  love,  255. 

I  claim  the  right  of  knowing  whom  I  serve,  177. 

I  don't  think  I  feel  much  older ;  I  'm  aware 
I  'm  rather  gray,  141. 

I  give  you  the  health  of  the  oldest  friend,  124. 

I  have  come  with  my  verses  —  I  think  I  may 
claim,  134. 

I  hold  a  letter  in  my  hand,  62. 

I  like,  at  times,  to  hear  the  steeples'  chimes,  138. 

I  Like  you  met  I  Love  you,  face  to  face,  301. 

I  love  all  sights  of  earth  and  skies,  284. 

I  love  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice,  7. 

I  may  not  rightly  call  thy  name,  100. 

I  must  leave  thee,  lady  sweet !  40. 

I  pray  thee  by  the  soul  of  her  that  bore  thee, 
164. 

I  remember  —  why,  yes  !  God  bless  me !  and 
was  it  so  long  ago  ?  108. 

I  saw  him  once  before,  5. 

I  saw  the  curl  of  his  waving  lash,  8. 

I  sometimes  sit  beneath  a  tree,  14. 

I  stood  on  Sarum's  treeless  plain,  147. 

I  suppose  it 's  myself  that  you  're  making  allu 
sion  to,  227. 

I  thank  you,  MR.  PRESIDENT,  you  've  kindly 
broke  the  ice,  104. 

I  was  sitting  with  my  microscope,  upon  my  par 
lor  rug,  34. 

I  was  thinking  last  night,  as  I  sat  in  the  cars, 
36. 

I  wrote  some  lines  once  on  a  time,  14. 

If  all  the  trees  in  all  the  woods  were  men,  300. 

If  every  tongue  that  speaks  her  praise,  272. 

If  sometimes  in  the  dark  blue  eye,  331. 

I  'm  ashamed,  —  that 's  the  fact,  —  it 's  a  piti 
ful  case,  119. 


I  'm  not  a  chicken  ;  I  have  seen,  13. 

I  'm  the  fellah  that  tole  one  day,  160. 

In  candent  ire  the  solar  splendor  flames,  158. 

In  narrowest  girdle,  O  reluctant  Muse,  54. 

In  poisonous  dens,  where  traitors  hide,  192. 

In  the  hour  of  twilight  shadows,  26. 

In  the  little  southern  parlor  of  the  house  you 

may  have  seen,  166. 

Is  it  a  weanling's  weakness  for  the  past,  286. 
Is  man's  the  only  throbbing  heart  that  hides, 

319. 

Is  thy  name  Mary,  maiden  fair  ?  327. 
It  is  a  pity  and  a  shame  —  alas  !  alas  !  I  know 

it  is,  136. 

It  is  not  what  we  say  or  sing,  126. 
It  may  be  so,  —  perhaps  thou  hast,  329. 
It  may  be,  yes,  it  must  be,  Time  that  brings, 

130. 
It  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by  the 

river-side,  329. 

It  was  not  many  centuries  since,  321. 
It  was  the  stalwart  butcher  man,  323. 

Kiss  mine  eyelids,  beauteous  Mom,  170. 

Lady,  life's  sweetest  lesson  wouldst  thou  learn, 

301. 
Land  where  the  banners  wave  last  in  the  sun, 

195. 

Leader  of  armies,  Israel's  God,  229. 
Let  greener  lands  and  bluer  skies,  326. 
Let  me  retrace  the  record  of  the  years,  174. 
Like  the  tribes  of  Israel,  124. 
Listen,  young  heroes  !  your  country  is  calling  ! 

192. 

Little  I  ask  ;  my  wants  are  few,  157. 
Look  our  ransomed  shores  around,  291. 
Look  out !  Look  out,  boys  !     Clear  the  track ! 

302. 

Lord  of  all  being  !  throned  afar,  163. 
Lord,  Thou  hast  led  us  as  of  old,  288. 
"  Lucy."  —  The  old  familiar  name,  228. 

Mine  ancient  chair  !  thy  wide  embracing  arms, 

333. 
My  aunt  !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt !  8. 

Nay,  blame  me  not ;  I  might  have  spared,  1. 

New  England,  we  love  thee  ;  no  time  can  erase, 
96. 

No  fear  lest  praise  should  make  us  proud  !  166. 

No  life  worth  naming  ever  comes  to  good,  85. 

No  more  the  summer  floweret  charms,  31. 

No  mystic  charm,  no  mortal  art,  212. 

No  !  never  such  a  draught  was  poured,  190. 

Not  bed-time  yet !     The  night-winds  blow,  144. 

Not  charity  we  ask,  100. 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone,  101. 

Not  to  myself  this  breath  of  vesper  song,  239. 

Not  with  the  anguish  of  hearts  that  are  break 
ing,  214. 

Now,  by  the  blessed  Paphian  queen,  7. 

Now,  men  of  the  North !  will  you  join  in  the 
strife,  123. 

Now,  smiling  friends  and  shipmates  all,  204. 

Now,  while  our  soldiers  are  fighting  our  battles, 
197. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


347 


0  even-handed  Nature  !  we  confess,  202. 

O  God  !  in  danger's  darkest  hour,  194. 

O  Lord  of  Hosts  !     Almighty  King  !  190. 

O  Love  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share,  163. 

0  my  lost  beauty !  —  hast  thou  folded  quite,  150. 

O  Thou  of  soul  and  sense  and  breath,  208. 

O'ershadowed  by  the  walls  that  climb,  287. 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  !  115. 

Oh  !  I  did  love  her  clearly,  327. 

Oli,  there  are  times,  9. 

Old  Rip  Van  Winkle  had  a  grandson,  Rip,  (53. 

Old  Time,  in  whose  bank  we  deposit  our  notes, 

135. 

Once  more  Orion  and  the  sister  Seven,  273. 
Once  more,  ye  sacred  towers,  215. 
One  broad,  white  sail  in  Spezzia's  treacherous 

bay,  92. 

One  country  !     Treason's  writhing  asp,  193. 
One  memory  trembles  on  our  lips,  133. 
One  word  to  the  guest  we  have  gathered  to 

greet!  199. 
"  Only  a  housemaid  !  "      She  looked  from  the 

kitchen,  234. 

Our  ancient  church  !  its  lowly  tower,  5. 
Our  Father  !  while  our  hearts  unlearn,  298. 
Our  poet,  who  has  taught  the  Western  breeze. 

206. 

Perhaps  too  far  in  these  considerate  days,  83. 
Poor  conquered  monarch  !  though  that  haughty 

glance,  324. 

Precisely.  I  see  it.  You  all  want  to  say,  131. 
Pride  of  the  sister  realm  so  long  our  own,  271. 
Proud  of  her  clustering  spires,  her  new-built 

towers,  270. 
Proudly,  beneath  her  glittering  dome,  293. 

"  Qui  vive  ?  "     The  sentry's  musket  rings,  331. 
Reader  —  gentle  —  if  so  be,  185. 

Say  not  the  Poet  dies  !  214. 
Scarce  could  the  parting  ocean  close,  94. 
Scene,  —  a  back  parlor  in  a  certain  square,  37. 
Scenes    of  my  youth  !    awake  its  slumbering 

fire  !  15. 

See  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads,  28. 
Sexton  !  Martha  's  dead  and  gone,  104. 
Shadowed  so  long  by  the  storm-cloud  of  danger, 

199. 

She  came  beneath  the  forest  dome,  39. 
She  gathered  at  her  slender  waist,  145. 
She  has  gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion  and 

pride,  111. 

She  twirled  the  string  of  golden  beads,  325. 
Shine  soft,  ye  trembling  tears  of  light,  91. 
Sire,  son,  and  grandson ;  so  the  century  glides. 

256. 
Sister,  we  bid  you  welcome, — we  who  stand, 

272. 

Slow  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale,  191. 
Slowly  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping, 

Strange  !  that  one  lightly  whispered  tone,  327. 
Such  kindness !  the  scowl  of  a  cynic  would 

soften,  252. 
Sweet  Mary,  I  have  never  breathed,  326. 


Teachers  of  teachers  !     Yours  the  task,  298. 
Tell  me,  0  Provincial !  speak,  Ceruleo-Nasal ! 

167. 

That  age  was  older  once  than  now,  152. 
The  Banker's  dinner  is  the  stateliest  feast,  307. 
The  Caliph  ordered  up  his  cook,  221. 
The  clock  has  struck  noon ;  ere  it  thrice  tell 

the  h oui-s,  115. 

The  Comet !    He  is  on  his  way,  11. 
The  curtain  rose ;  in  thunders  long  and  loud,  85. 
The  dinner-bell,  the  dinner-bell,  330. 
The  dirge  is  played,  the  throbbing  death-peal 

rung,  133. 
"The  Dutch  have  taken  Holland,"  —  so  the 

schoolboys  used  to  say,  284. 
The  feeble  sea-birds,  blinded  in  the  storms,  61. 
The  folks,  that  on  the  first  of  May,  330. 
The  fount  the  Spaniard  sought  in  vain,  222. 
The  friends  that  are,  and  friends  that  were,  120. 
The   glory   has   passed    from    the    goldenrod's 

plume,  304. 

The  god  looked  out  upon  the  troubled  deep,  321. 
The  house  was  crammed  from  roof  to  floor,  189. 
j    The  land  of  sunshine  and  of  song  !  110. 
The  minstrel  of  the  classic  lay,  140. 
The  mountains  glitter  in  the  snow.  97. 
The  muse  of  boyhood's  fervid  hour,  137. 
1    The  noon  of  summer  sheds  its  ray,  10(5. 
:    The  painter's  and  the  poet's  fame,  207. 
The  piping  of  our  slender,  peaceful  reeds,  72. 
The  Play 'is  over.     While  the  light,  148. 
The  pledge  of  Friendship  !  it  is  still  divine,  42. 
The  seed  that  wasteful  autumn  cast,  9<>. 
The  Ship  of  State !   above  her  skies  are  blue, 

239. 
The  snows  that  glittered  on  the  disk  of  Mars, 

174. 

The  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky,  13. 
The  stars  their  early  vigils  keep,  33. 
The  summer  dawn  is  breaking,  114. 
The  sunbeams,  lost  for  half  a  year,  152. 
The  sun-browned  girl,  whose  limbs  recline,  32(5. 
The  sun  is  fading  in  the  skies,  332. 
The  sun  stepped  down  from  his  golden  throne, 

325. 

The  tale  I  tell  is  gospel  true,  73. 
The   time   is  racked   with   birth-pangs  ;   every 

hour,  180. 

The  two  proud  sisters  of  the  sea,  331. 
The  waves  unbuild  the  wasting  shore,  277. 
The  wreath  that  star-crowned  Shelley  gave,  92. 
There  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take,  12. 
There  is  no  time  like  the  old  time,  when  you 

and  I  were  young,  222. 
There  was  a  giant  in  time  of  old,  10. 
There  was  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet,  322. 
There  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town.  60. 
There  's  a    tiling  that   grows   by  the   fainting 

flower,  323. 
These  hallowed  precincts,  long  to  memory  dear, 

257. 

They  bid  me  strike  the  idle  strings,  32. 
They  tell  us  that  the  Muse  is  soon  to  fly  hence, 

251. 
This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  it  tells  of  good 

old  times,  29. 
This  is  our  place  of  meeting  ;  opposite,  2(59. 


348 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign,  149. 

This  is  your  month,  the  month  of  "perfect 
days,"  274. 

This  shred  of  song  you  bid  me  bring,  146. 

Thou  Gracious  Power,  whose  mercy  lends,  129. 

Thou  shouldst  have  sung  the  swan-song  for  the 
choir,  296. 

Thou,  too,  hast  left  us.  While  with  heads 
bowed  low,  297. 

Thou  who  hast  taught  the  teachers  of  man 
kind,  206. 

Though  watery  deserts  hold  apart,  198. 

Though  young  no  more,  we  still  would  dream, 
156. 

Three  paths  there  be  where  Learning's  favored 
sons,  264. 

Through  my  north  window,  in  the  wintry  wea 
ther,  247. 

Thus  I  lift  the  sash,  so  long,  185. 

Time  is  a  thief  who  leaves  his  tools  behind 
him,  147. 

'T  is  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at  eighty, 
one  remembers,  224. 

'T  is  midnight:  through  my  troubled  dream, 
120. 

'T  is  sweet  to  fight  our  battles  o'er,  102. 

To  God's  anointed  and  his  chosen  flock,  251. 

Too  young  for  love  ?  301. 

Trained  in  the  holy  art  whose  lifted  shield,  220. 

Truth:  So  the  frontlet's  older  legend  ran,  231. 

'T  was  a  vision  of  childhood  that  came  with  its 
dawn,  94. 

'T  was  on  the  famous  trotting  ground,  234. 

Twice  had  the  mellowing  sun  of  autumn 
crowned,  277. 

Vex  not  the  Muse  with  idle  prayers,  305. 

Wan-visaged  thing  !  thy  virgin  leaf,  328. 
Washed  in  the  blood  of    the  brave  and  the 

blooming,  194. 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest,  99. 
We  sing  "  Our  Country's  "  song  to-night,  120. 
We  trust  and  fear,  we  question  and  believe,  85. 
We  welcome  you,  Lords  of  the  Land  of  the 

Sun !  201. 

We  will  not  speak  of  years  to-night,  102. 
Welcome  to  the  day  returning,  98. 
Welcome,  thrice  welcome  is  thy  silvery  gleam, 

Well,  Miss,  I  wonder  where  you  live,  11. 
What  ailed  young  Lucius  ?    Art  had  vainly 

tried,  313. 
What  am  I  but  the  creature  Thou  hast  made, 

178. 

What  flower  is  this  that  greets  the  morn,  196. 
What  if  a  soul  redeemed,  a  spirit  that  loved, 

182. 

What  is  a  poet's  love  ?  328. 
What  makes  the  Healing  Art  divine  ?  106. 


What  secret  charm,  long  whispering  in  mine 

ear,  333. 

Whatever  I  do,  and  whatever  I  say,  171. 
When  Advent  dawns  with  lessening  days,  290. 
When  Eve  had  led  her  lord  away,  155. 
When  evening's  shadowy  fingers  fold,  292. 
When  legislators  keep  the  law,  155. 
When  life  hath  run  its  largest  round,  98. 
When  o'er  the  street  the  morning  peal  is  flung, 

83. 

When  rose  the  cry  "  Great  Pan  is  dead  I  "  237. 
When  the  Puritans  came  over,  30. 
When  treason  first  began  the  strife,  205. 
Where  are  you  going,  soldiers,  191. 
Where,  girt  around  by  savage  foes,  215. 
Where  is  this  patriarch  you  are  kindly  greet 
ing?  243. 
Where,  oh  where,  are  the  visions  of  morning, 

115. 

While  far  along  the  eastern  sky,  188. 
While  fond,  sad  memories  all  around  us  throng, 

244. 

While  in  my  simple  gospel  creed,  304. 
Who  claims  our  Shakespeare  from  that  realm 

unknown,  211. 
"  Who    gave    this    cup  ? "     The    secret    thou 

wouldst  steal,  300. 

Who  is  the  shepherd  sent  to  lead,  102. 
Who  of  all  statesmen  is  his  country's  pride,  315. 
Why  linger  round  the  sunken  wrecks,  290. 
"  Will  I  come?"    That  is  pleasant !    I  beg  to 

inquire,  127. 

Winter  is  past ;  the  heart  of  Nature  warms,  80. 
Winter's    cold    drift    lies    glistening    o'er    his 

breast,  210. 

Ye  that  have  faced  the  billows  and  the  spray, 
311. 


Ye  who  yourselves  of  larger  worth  esteem,  295. 

Yes,  dear  departed,  cherished  days,  32. 

Yes,   dear  Enchantress,  —  wandering  far    and 


long,  43. 

Yes,  lady !    I  can  ne'er  forget,  332. 
Yes  !  the  vacant  chairs  tell  sadly  we  are  going, 

going  fast,  140. 
Yes,  tyrants,  you  hate  us,  and  fear  while  you 

hate,  121. 
Yes,   we  knew  we  must  lose  him,  —  though 

friendship  may  claim,  151. 
Yes,  write,  if  you  want  to,  there  's  nothing  like 

trying,  232. 

Yet  in  the  darksome  crypt  I  left  so  late,  82. 
Yon  whey-faced  brother,  who  delights  to  wear, 

84. 


You  bid  me  sing,  —  can  I  forget,  219. 

The  ~ 
306. 


You  know  " The  Teacups, "that  congenial  set, 


You  '11  believe  me,  dear  boys,  't  is  a  pleasure  to 

rise,  117. 
Your  home  was  mine,  —  kind  Nature's  gift,  263. 


INDEX    OF   TITLES 


[The  tides  of  the  main  divisions  of  this  book  are  set  in  SMALL  CAPITALS.' 


u  Ad  Amicos,"  137. 

Address  for  the  Opening  of  the  Fifth  Avenue 

Theatre,  216. 
^Estivation,  158. 
After  a  Lecture  on  Keats,  92. 
After  a  Lecture  011  Moore,  91. 
After  a  Lecture  on  Shelley,  92. 
After  a  Lecture  on  Wordsworth,  90. 
After-Dinner  Poem,  54. 
After  the  Curfew,  148. 
After  the  Fire,  188. 
Agnes,  72. 
Album  Verses,  155. 
All  here,  126. 
America  to  Russia,  198. 

American  Academy  Centennial  Celebration,  256. 
Angel-Thief,  The,  147. 
Appeal  for  "  The  Old  South,"  An,  236. 
Archbishop,  The,  and  Gil  Bias,  141. 
Army  Hymn,  19(5. 
Astrsea,  3153. 

At  a  Meeting  of  Friends,  108. 
At  My  Fireside,  2(59. 
At  the  Papyrus  Club,  249. 
At  the  Saturday  Club,  269. 
At  the  Turn  of  the  Road,  304. 
At  the  Unitarian  Festival,  277. 
Atlantic  Dinner,  At  the,  227. 
Aunt,  My,  8. 
Aunt  Tabitha,  171. 
Ave,  28(5. 
Aviary,  My,  247. 
Avis,  100. 

Bachelor's  Private  Journal,  From  a,  326. 

Ballad  of  the  Boston  Tea-Party,  A,  190. 

Ballad  of  the  Oysterman,  The,  329. 

Banker's  Secret,  The,  307. 

Banquet  to  the  Chinese  Embassy,  At  the,  200. 

Banquet  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis.  At  the,  199. 

Banquet  to  the  Japanese  Embassy,  At  the,  201. 

BEFORE  THE  CUKFEW,  269. 

Bells,  The,  83. 

Bill  and  Joe,  113. 

Birthday  Festival,  At  a,  102. 

Birthday  of  Daniel  Webster,  98. 

Birthday  Tribute  to  J.  F.  Clarke,  A,  102. 

Blank  Sheet  of  Paper,  To  a,  328. 

Boston  Common,  109. 

Boston  to  Florence,  276. 

Boys,  The,  118. 

Broken  Circle,  The,  147. 

Broomstick  Train,  The,  301. 

Brother  Jonathan's  Lament,  111. 

Bryant's  Seventieth  Birthday,  202. 


349 


BUNKER-HILL  BATTLE    AND  OTHER  POEMS 

(1874-1877),  224. 

Burns  Centennial  Celebration,  For  the,  107. 
But  One  Talent,  295. 

Cacoethes  Scribendi,  300. 
Caged  Lion,  To  a,  324. 
Cambridge  Churchyard,  The,  5. 
Canaan,  To,  191. 

Centennial  Dinner  of  the  Massachusetts  Medi 
cal  Society,  264. 
Chambered  Nautilus,  The,  149. 
Chanson  without  Music,  219. 
"  Choose  You  this  Day,"  121. 
Clarke,  James  Freeman,  To,  255. 
Close  of  a  Course  of  Lectures,  At  the,  93. 
Comet,  The,  11. 
Coming  Era,  The,  251. 
Contentment,  157. 
Crooked  Footpath,  The,  164. 

Daily  Trials,  9. 

DeSauty,  167. 

Deacon's  Masterpiece,  The,  158. 

Death  of  President  Garfield,  On  the,  289. 

Dedication   of    the    Fountain   at    Stratford-on- 

Avon,  291. 
Dedication  of  the  Halleck  Monument,  Poem  at 

the,  214. 
Dedication  of  the  New  City  Library,  Boston, 

For  the,  293. 

Dedication  of  the  Pittsfield  Cemetery,  87. 
Departed  Days.  32. 
Dilemma,  The,  7. 

Dinner  to  Admiral  Farragut,  At  a,  204. 
Dinner  to  General  Grant,  At  a,  205. 
Dorchester  Giant,  The,  10. 
Dorothy  Q.,  186. 
Dying  Seneca,  The,  332. 

EARLIER  POEMS,  3. 

Edward  Everett.  210. 

Ehrenberg,  Christian  Gottfried,  To,  206. 

English  Friend,  To  an,  90. 

Epilogue  to  the  Breakfast-Table  Series,  183. 

Even-Song,  130. 

Evening,  by  a  Tailor,  9. 

Evening  Thought,  An,  331. 

Exile's  Secret,  The,  311. 

Extracts  from  a  Medical  Poem,  61. 

Familiar  Letter,  A,  232. 
Family  Record,  A,  239. 
Fantasia,  170. 
Farewell  to  Agassiz,  A,  203. 


350 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Farewell  to  J.  R.  Lowell,  97. 

First  Fan,  The,  237. 

First  Verses,  321. 

Flaneur,  The,  284. 

Flower  of  Liberty,  The,  196. 

For  Class  Meeting,  136. 

For  the  Burns  Centennial  Celebration,  107. 

For  the  Centennial  Dinner  of  the  Proprietors  of 
Boston  Pier,  220. 

For  the  Commemoration  Services,  208. 

For  the  Dedication  of  the  New  City  Library, 
Boston,  293. 

For  the  Meeting  of  the  Burns  Club,  97. 

For  the  Meeting  of  the  National-Sanitary  Asso 
ciation,  106. 

For  the  Moore  Centennial  Celebration,  253. 

For  the  Services  in  Memory  of  Abraham  Lin 
coln,  208. 

For  the  Window  in  St.  Margaret's,  296. 

For  Whittier's  Seventieth  Birthday,  250. 

Fountain  of  Youth,  The,  222. 

Freedom,  Our  Queen,  195. 

F.  W.  C.,  122. 

Garfield,  President,  On  the  Death  of,  289. 

Girdle  of  Friendship,  The,  145. 

God  save  the  Flag,  194. 

Golden  Flower,  The,  290. 

Good  Time  Going,  A,  155. 

Gould,  Dr.  Benjamin  Apthorp,  A  Welcome  to, 

273. 

Governor  Swain,  To,  89. 
Grandmother's  Story  of  Bunker -Hill  Battle, 

224. 
Gray  Chief,  The,  102. 

H.  C.  M.,  H.  S.,  J.  K.  W.,  133. 

Hail  Columbia !  290. 

Harvard,  268. 

Harvard  College,  Poem  for  the  Two  Hundred 

and  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  the  Founding  of, 

277. 

Hayes,  Rutherford  Birchard,  To,  239. 
Hedge,  Frederick  Henry,  To,  274. 
Height  of  the  Ridiculous,  The,  14. 
Homesick  in  Heaven,  169. 
Hot  Season,  The,  330. 
How  not  to  settle  it,  138. 
How  the  Old  Horse  won  the  Bet,  234. 
Hudson,  The,  94. 
Humboldt's  Birthday,  213. 
Hymn  after  the  Emancipation  Proclamation, 

194. 
Hymn  at  the  Funeral  Services  of  Charles  Sum- 

ner,  215. 

Hymn  for  the  Class-Meeting,  129. 
Hymn  for  the  Dedication  of  Memorial  Hall  at 

Cambridge,  215. 

Hymn  for  the  Fair  at  Chicago,  194. 
Hymn  for  the  Inauguration  of  the  Statue  of 

Governor  Andrew,  229. 
Hymn  for  the  Laying  of  the  Corner-Stone  of 

Harvard  Memorial  Hall,  214. 
Hymn  for  the  Two  Hundredth  Anniversary  of 

King's  Chapel,  287. 
Hymn  of  Peace,  A,  223. 
Hymn  of  Trust,  163. 


Hymn  read  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes  Hospital  at  Hudson,  Wis 
consin,  288. 

Hymn  written  for  the  Great  Central  Fair  in 
Philadelphia,  193. 

Hymn  written  for  the  Twenty-fifth  Anniversary 
of  the  Reorganization  of  the  Boston  Young 
Men's  Christian  Union,  298. 

Hymn,  The  Word  of  Promise,  288. 

I  Like  you  and  I  Love  you,  301. 

Illustration  of  a  Picture,  325. 

Impromptu,  An,  115. 

Impromptu  at  the  Walcker  Dinner  upon  the 

Completion  of  the  Great  Organ  for  Boston 

Music  Hall,  An,  215. 
In  Memory  of  Charles  Wentworth  Upham,  Jr. , 

103. 

In  Memory  of  John  and  Robert  Ware,  212. 
In  Memory  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  297. 
In  Response,  252. 
IN  THE  QUIET  DAYS,  186. 
In  the  Twilight,  144. 
IN  WAR  TIME,  191. 
Indian  Summer,  Our,  117. 
Insect,  To  an,  7. 
International  Ode,  110. 
Iris,  Her  Book,  164. 
IRON  GATE,  THE,  243. 
Island  Hunting-Song,  The,  31. 
Invita  Minerva,  305. 

J.  D.  R.,  120. 

Joseph  Warren,  M.  D.,  230. 

King's  Chapel.  Read  at  the  Two  Hundredth 
Anniversary,  286. 

La  Grisette,  326. 

La  Maison  d'Or,  301. 

Last  Blossom,  The,  156. 

Last  Charge,  The,  123. 

Last  Leaf,  The,  4. 

Last  Look,The,  103. 

Last  Prophecy  of  Cassandra,  332. 

Last  Reader,  The,  14. 

Last  Survivor,  The,  140. 

Latter-Day  Warnings,  154. 

Lexington,  28. 

L'Inconnue,  327. 

Lines,  119. 

Lines  by  a  Clerk,  327. 

Lines  recited  at  the  Berkshire  Jubilee,  33. 

Living  Temple,  The,  101. 

Longfellow,  H.  W.,  To,  206. 

Lover's  Secret,  The,  313. 

Loving-Cup  Song,  A,  145. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  To,  274,  293. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  296. 

"Lucy,  "228. 

Lyre  of  Anacreon,  The,  146. 

Mare  Rubrum,  117. 

Martha,  104. 

MEDICAL  POEMS,  58. 

Meeting  of  Friends,  At  a,  108. 

Meeting  of  the  Alumni  of  Harvard  College,  104. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


351 


Meeting  of  the  American  Medical  Association, 

62. 

Meeting  of  the  Burns  Club,  For  the,  97. 
Meeting  of  the  Dryads,  The,  321. 
Meeting  of  the  National  Sanitary  Association, 

106. 
Memorial  Tribute  to  Dr.  Samuel  G.  Howe,  A, 

229. 

MEMORIAL  VJKHSES,  208. 
Midsummer,  167. 
Mind's  Diet,  The,  85. 
Modest  Request,  A,  ;>7. 
Moral  Bully,  The,  84. 
Morning  Visit,  The,  58. 
Mother's  Secret,  The,  317. 
Musa,  150. 

Music  Grinders,  The,  12. 
My  Annual,  125. 
My  Aunt,  8. 
My  Aviary,  247. 
Mysterious  Visitor,  The,  322. 

Nearing  the  Snow  Line,  191. 

Never  or  Now,  192. 

New  Eden,  The,  94. 

Non-Resistance,  83. 

Noontide  Lyric,  A,  330. 

No  Time  like  the  Old  Time,  222. 

Nux  Postco3iiatica,  35. 

Ode  for  a  Social  Meeting  (with  alterations),  162. 

Ode  for  Washington's  Birthday,  98. 

Old  Cambridge,  230. 

Old  Cruiser,  The,  128. 

Old  Ironsides,  3. 

Old  Man  Dreams,  The,  115. 

Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  The,  109. 

Old  Player,  The,  85. 

Old  Tune,  The,  146. 

Old- Year  Song,  An,  186. 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl,  29. 

On  the  Threshold,  249. 

Once  More,  127. 

One  Country,  193. 

Only  Daughter,  The,  32. 

Opening  of  the  Piano,  The,  166. 

Opening  the  Window,  185. 

Organ-Blower,  The,  187. 

Our  Banker,  135. 

Our  Dead  Singer.     H.  W.  L.,  271. 

Our  Home  —  Our  Country,  263. 

Our  Indian  Summer,  117. 

Our  Limitations,  85. 

Our  Oldest  Friend,  124. 

Our  Sweet  Singer,  133. 

Our  Yankee  Girls,  326. 

Pantomime,  At  the,  189. 

Parkman,  Francis,  298. 

Parson  Turell's  Legacy,  160. 

Parting  Health,  A,  151. 

Parting  Hymn,  196. 

Parting  Song,  The,  106. 

Parting  Word,  The,  40. 

Peabody,  George,  To,  249. 

Petau  de  Chagrin  of  State  Street,  The,  300. 

Peirce,  Benjamin,  143. 


Philosopher  to  his  Love,  The,  328. 

Pilgrim's  Vision,  The,  26. 

Ploughman,  The,  79. 

Poem  at  the  Centennial  Dinner  of  the  Massa 
chusetts  Medical  Society,  264. 

Poem  for  the  Dedication  of  the  Fountain  at 
Stratford-on-Avon,  291. 

Poem  for  the  Dedication  of  the  Pittsfield  Ceme 
tery,  87. 

Poem  for  the  Meeting  of  the  American  Medical 
Association,  62. 

Poem  read  at  the  Dinner  given  to  the  Author 
by  the  Medical  Profession  of  the  City  of  New 
York,  68. 

Poem  served  to  Order,  A,  221. 

POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT,  149. 

POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR,  163. 

POEMS  FROM  THE  POET,  1(59. 

POEMS  FROM  OVER  THE  TEACUPS,  300. 

POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29,  113. 

POEMS  PUBLISHED  BETWEEN  1837  AND  1848,  26. 

Poet's  Lot,  The,  328. 

Poetrv :  a  Metrical  Essay,  15. 

Portrait,  A,  331. 

Portrait  of  "  A  Gentleman,"  To  the,  329. 

Portrait  of  a  Lady,  To  the,  11. 

Post-Prandial,  284. 

Prelude  (to  Parson  TurelPs  Legacy),  160. 

Prelude  to  a  Volume  printed  in  Raised  Letters 
for  the  Blind,  276. 

Programme,  185. 

Prologue,  153. 

Prologue  to  Songs  in  Many  Keys,  72. 

Promise,  The,  100. 

Questions  and  Answers,  115. 
"Qui  Vive?"  331. 

READINGS  OVER  THE  TEACUPS,  306. 
Reflections  of  a  Proud  Pedestrian,  8. 
Remember  —  Forget,  116. 
Rhymed  Lesson,  A,  43. 
Rhymes  of  a  Life-Time,  268. 
RHYMES  OF  AN  HOUR,  216. 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  M.  D.,  63. 
Robinson  of  Leyden,  165. 
Roman  Aqueduct,  A,  326. 
Rose  and  the  Fern,  The,  301. 

School-Boy,  The,  257. 

Sea  Dialogue,  A,  218. 

Secret  of  the  Stars,  The,  319. 

Semi-Centennial  Celebration  of  the  New  Eng 
land  Society,  96. 

Sentiment,  A,  42,  63. 

September  Gale,  The,  13. 

Services  in  Memory  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  For 
the,  208. 

Shadows,  The,  142. 

Shakespeare  Tercentennial  Celebration,  211. 

Sherman  's  in  Savannah,  124. 

Ship  of  State,  The,  239. 

Silent  Melody,  The,  263. 

Smiling  Listener,  The,  131. 

Song  for  a  Temperance  Dinner,  42. 

Song  for  the  Centennial  Celebration  of  Harvard 
College,  30. 


352 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Song  for  the  Dinner  to  Charles  Dickens,  33. 

Song  of  Other  Days,  A,  41. 

Song  of  "  Twenty-Nine,"  A,  114. 

SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS,  72. 

SONGS  OF  MANY  SEASONS,  1S5. 

SONGS  OF  WELCOME  AND  FAREWELL,  198. 

Souvenir,  A,  332. 

Spectre  Pig,  The,  323. 

Spring,  «0. 

Spring  has  come,  152. 

St.  Anthony  the  Reformer,  166. 

St.  Margaret's,  For  the  Window  in,  296. 

Stanzas,  327. 

Star  and  the  Water-Lily,  The,  325. 

Statesman's  Secret,  The,  315. 

Steamboat,  The,  28. 

Stethoscope  Song,  The,  60. 

Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher,  Two  Poems  to,  272. 

Study,  The,  82. 

Sun  and  Shadow,  150. 

Sun-Day  Hymn,  A,  163. 

Sweet  Little  Man,  The,  197. 

Tartarus,  304. 

Teachers  of  America,  To  the,  298. 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord,"  192. 

To  a  Blank  Sheet  of  Paper,  328. 

To  a  Caged  Lion,  324. 

To  an  English  Friend,  90. 

To  an  Insect,  7. 

To  Canaan,  191. 

To  Christian  Gottfried  Ehrenberg,  206. 

To  Frederick  Henry  Hedge,  274. 

To  George  Peabody,  249. 

To  Governor  Swain,  89. 

To  H.  W.  Longfellow,  206. 

To  James  Freeman  Clarke,  255. 

To  James  Russell  Lowell,  274. 

To  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  275. 

To  My  Companions,  333. 

To  My  Old  Readers,  306. 

To  My  Readers,  1. 

To  Rutherford  Birchard  Hayes,  239. 


To  the  Eleven  Ladies,  300. 

To  the  Poets  who  only  read  and  listen,  292. 

To  the  Portrait  of  "  A  Gentleman,"  329. 

To  the  Portrait  of  a  Lady,  11. 

To  the  Teachers  of  America,  298. 

Toadstool,  The,  323. 

Toast  to  Wilkie  Collins,  A,  207. 

Too  Young  for  Love,  301. 

Treadmill  Song,  The,  13. 

Two  Armies,  The,  59. 

Two  Poems  to  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  272. 

Two  Sonnets  :  Harvard,  251. 

Two  Streams,  The,  99. 

Under  the  Violets,  163. 
Under  the  Washington  Elm,  195. 
Union  and  Liberty,  198. 
Unsatisfied,  234. 

Upham,  Charles  Wentworth,  Jr..  In  Memory 
of,  103. 

Verses  for  After-Dinner,  36. 

VERSES  FROM  THE  OLDEST  PORTFOLIO,  321. 

Vestigia  Quinque  Retrorsum,  244. 

Vive  la  France,  110. 

Voice  of  the  Loyal  North,  A,  120. 

Voiceless,  The,  99. 

Voyage  of  the  Good  Ship  Union,  120. 

Ware,  John  and  Robert,  In  Memory  of,  212. 

Wasp  and  the  Hornet,  The,  331. 

Welcome  to  Dr.  Benjamin  Apthorp  Gould,  A, 

273. 

Welcome  to  the  Chicago  Commercial  Club,  255. 
Welcome  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis,  199. 
Welcome  to  the  Nations,  232. 
What  I  have  come  for,  134. 
What  We  all  think,  152. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  In  Memory  of,  297. 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  To,  275. 
Wind-Clouds  and  Star-Drifts,  171. 

Youth,  290. 


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